100 Theme Challenge
by Rabid Chimera
Summary: A series of one-shots based on a list of 100 themes. Any and all characters, environments, pairings, etc. could be used. Please read the warnings at the beginning of each one-shot before continuing. For more info, read the notes on the 1st one-shot. (Rating has been changed to M; read notes at the top of theme 15 for more details.)
1. Theme One: Introduction

**A/N:** Here's a little important info about this writing challenge. Please read these notes before asking any questions as your question may be answered here. Firstly, I am setting the initial rating of this entire series at T. That rating is subject to change due to strong language, violence, suggestive themes, etc. In fact, the rating probably will change. That doesn't mean you have to stop reading if you find M-rated content objectionable. I will list the warnings for each of these one-shots at the beginning. I advise you to read the warnings before you continue reading any of these one-shots as almost anything could appear in these one-shots(yaoi, yuri, sexual themes, etc.). Please note that if you do not read the warnings and, as a result, read content to which you object, I will not be held responsible. You can flame me for this or whatever, but I will most likely ignore you or shove back in your face the fact that you failed to read the warnings and, therefore, are at fault.

Also, some of the one-shots I write for this challenge will not be fanfiction, meaning I can't submit them here. There may also be sexually graphic one-shots that I cannot post here. I will notify you at the beginning of the following one-shot if the previous one could not be submitted here. Usually, you will be able to find those one-shots excluded here on my deviantART, which is blood-of-dusk. I will make a note otherwise.

Anyway, I hope these one-shots, or some of them, at least, will thoroughly entertain you. Your feedback and constructive criticism is welcome and greatly appreciated. Thank you for your time.

* * *

**100 Theme Writing Challenge**

**Theme:**Introduction

**Fandom/Universe:**DMC

**Characters:** Dante, Nero, Patty

**Genre(s):** Humor

**Warnings:** None

* * *

A content sigh rolled from Nero's lips as he basked in the damp warmth of the towel laying around his neck. He had just stepped out of the shower and only bothered to put on his pants. Every few moments, the dull crunching of his teeth chomping off a soft chunk of the apple clutched in his hand would break the silence hanging in the air. Dante was still asleep, so Nero would have a few more hours of peace and quiet before the hunter came down to tease him and wrestle him for the final slice of pizza.

As Nero took the last bite of his apple, the front doors came swinging open, and where he expected to see Trish or Lady was a young, blond girl. Her hair draped around her shoulders in golden curls and her dress was a pastel pink with a big bow tied in the back. Her dressy, black shoes clicked on the bare concrete as she stepped into the building, her expression none too friendly. Her brows were pulled slightly together and her lower lip pooched out in an angry pout. Dainty hands akimbo, she leaned forward and subjected Nero to an awkward moment of intense scrutiny.

"You're not Dante," she mused aloud, her squeaky voice accusatory.

"Um," Nero hummed, genuinely confused, "no, I'm not."

While he was distracted by the odd blond girl, Nero lost his grip on the core of his former apple. It tumbled to the floor with a dull thud, and both his and her eyes settled on its still carcass. When Nero bent down to pick it up, he was nearly startled by the girl's sudden high-pitched shrieking.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" Nero paused midway, his spine crooked and human arm extended toward the fallen core as he gawked up at her. "Throw that away!"

Without a word, Nero plucked the core from the dusty floor and deposited it in the waste basket behind Dante's desk. At that moment, the girl was stomping audibly up the steps. She disappeared through the doorway leading into the hall, and Nero soon heard her shrill voice again.

"Dante, you lazy bum! Get out of bed!"

Her scolding was followed by more of her stomping before Nero heard Dante whine some sort of plea. His plea was followed by the _thwump _of a down pillow hitting the floor.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

By that point, Nero's lips were twitching into a humored grin. The girl came trotting victoriously back down the steps, followed by a grouchy Dante a few moments later. The hunter rubbed at his bleary eyes, a frown on his face. The girl's eyes were closed, brows high and noise pointed into the air. She stopped between the desk and the stairs, crossing her arms and staring down her nose at the hunter, or she would have if he didn't tower several feet over her head. Dante sat in his usual seat, too tired to throw his feet up and clutching his head in one hand. He had that thousand-yard zombie stare that was so characteristic of a good night's sleep interrupted.

"You're too old for this, Dante," said the blond, shaking her head in shame. Nero was suppressing a laugh.

"Who is this?" he asked, the humor clear in his voice.

Dante sighed heavily, sounding about to collapse. "Patty..."


	2. Theme Three: Love

**100 Theme Writing Challenge**

**Theme:** Love

**Fandom/Universe:** Devil May Cry

**Characters:** Dante

**Genre(s):** Angst

**Warnings:** Vague Reference to Rape

**Previous theme(_Theme Two: Complicated_) can be found on deviantART under account name _blood-of-dusk_.**

* * *

Dante only realized after the glass cracked and webbed beneath his thumb that he had been crushing the small picture frame he clutched in one hand. A stinging smidgen of pain prompted the devil hunter to lift his thumb, and he watched a fat drop of blood leak from the slit the glass had left behind, spattering onto the broken pane. He smeared it across the surface, uncovering Vergil's somber face. Dante couldn't remember a smile ever being on his brother's face, and he had to wonder if Vergil was ever truly happy. Dante supposed he wasn't; neither of them was. After their mother was killed by demons, the twins were forced to fend for themselves on the streets. Dante remembered many nights of hiding in condemned buildings and huddling together so they wouldn't freeze to death. No matter what either of them did to lighten the mood, both were always aware of their situation, effectively eliminating any chance of happiness.

Even so, Vergil always made sacrifices when it came to Dante and vice versa. They became absolutely dedicated to one another because they really had nothing else to dedicate themselves to. Dante remembered with a sickness in his gut the various tasks they were forced to endure to gather even a small portion of money or food. Eva had raised her twins to know stealing was wrong, and the first time Dante had to steal food, he was utterly paranoid for the following few weeks that big men in uniforms with handcuffs and guns would come to drag him off to prison. Vergil had always possessed a survivalist mindset, knowing he either stole or died. He had tried to explain that to Dante on several occasions, but Dante always felt that accepting theft as a part of life was just letting his mother down. However, the first time a burly man drug him into an alleyway, used him like a dirty sock and pressed some bills into his hand, he had prayed every single day that he could steal his food instead. Of course, his prayers were never answered. Dante had turned his back on the entire concept of God when he was only twelve, for every time one of his prayers went unanswered, the only questions in his mind were, "What have I done to deserve this? Why are you punishing me?"

However, where a nonexistent god left a void in his life, Vergil was always there to fill it back in with hope. Hope that they would find their mother alive, hope that they would find a home someday, and, when those dreams fell through, hope that they simply wouldn't starve to death. No matter what he was hoping for, there was never a time that Dante felt hopeless for long, and he knew he had to thank Vergil for every second he wasn't wishing something would come along to put a quick end to his suffering. Dante used to get furious, _enraged_ with his brother because he thought Vergil wasn't pulling enough weight as he should. However, in retrospect, Vergil had carried just as heavy a burden on his shoulders as Dante, if not heavier.

When Dante was out breaking into someone's home to rifle through their cabinets or selling himself for meager pay, Vergil was trying to keep them both happy, facing the horrible world they inhabited with an unbreakable, rigid constitution. Dante couldn't count how many nights he had spent sobbing into his brother's shoulder until he was exhausted enough to sleep, but one thing he could never remember doing was holding Vergil while he cried. Vergil had _never_ cried, not even once, and considering the circumstances, that was more than could be said about even a grown man when reduced to living like a worthless animal. Dante gripped the fabric covering his chest right over the cavity where his heart ached with every throb. He could only imagine the heaviness Vergil had held in his heart, and, yet, even after all the strength he had to use up to keep himself from falling apart, his brother was still out there doing those same horrible things that no one, let alone mere children, should ever have to endure.

A teardrop washed a trail through the blood drying on the glass. Dante knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Vergil had loved him then. It wasn't possible for a person to subject themselves to such demeaning, excruciating and numbing things without loving the one they were doing it for. Yet, despite how close they had been as children, Vergil had cast Dante off like an old, disheveled and stained chapter in his life when he began his pursuit of the power of their father, Sparda. To Vergil, such power was far more important than family ever could be.

When he was young and naïve, Dante believed that it would always be just him and his brother. No matter where they went in life, Dante knew they would go and leave together. He didn't have his dearest mother, but he still had his brother, and Dante never imagined that he would one day lose Vergil, too. And, yet, when a sympathetic devil hunter took them in off the streets, it was Vergil who had snuck away one night without saying "goodbye", leaving Dante all alone in the world. Somehow, Vergil's death wasn't nearly as painful as having his brother turn his back on him completely. From then on, they had become rivals, and Dante still couldn't figure out how it had come to that. Even though Vergil was dead, slain by Dante's own hands, the hunter still asked one question every single day: where had all the love gone?


	3. Theme Four: Rivalry

**100 Theme Challenge**

**Theme:** Rivalry

**Fandom/Universe:** DMC

**Character(s):** Credo, Sanctus, Nero

**Genre(s): **Angst

**Warnings: **Language

* * *

Credo grunted in recognition every time he flipped over a file that he remembered distinctly. Thumbing through the stack of papers on his desk, the knight was making an effort to finish some of the paperwork he had let collect throughout the week. None of it was terribly significant. Mostly, there were just permissive documents to be signed. A convent on the mainland had asked if they could send a group of missionaries to assist the hospital. Fortuna boasted a lot of things, but they were humbled when it came to their medical facility. It was functional but very outdated and in need of many renovations. Credo hummed in confirmation, grabbing his quill from the bottle nearby to scratch his name onto the paper in his always elegant script. However, it would be at that exact moment that a messenger boy, a low-ranking knight in training, would burst into his office without so much as a single knock.

Credo rolled his eyes in irritation when the boy was finally revealed, standing stiff in the doorway. Normally, the captain was a very patient man, but foolish, naïve children tended to make him rather irascible. When the ink was close to dripping and blotting the pristine white of the unsigned document, Credo quickly dropped it back into the ink bottle before clasping his gloved hands atop his desk.

"Yes?"

"Captain Credo, sir," the boy barked in an unnecessarily loud voice that reminded Credo of a young Nero, "His Holiness requests your presence at the table."

Credo quirked a brow. "I don't remember a meeting being scheduled for today."

"There isn't a meeting scheduled, sir," replied the boy, looking as if he was about to start marching in place. Credo would have laughed if he wasn't wishing so adamantly that the boy would leave. "His Holiness wishes to hold a private council with you."

Credo found that incredibly strange. Sanctus rarely ever met with him in private. Normally, everything was discussed among a group of elites to which Credo was included. However, being the captain of The Order, his rank was just below Sanctus'. He was the second most important official in Fortuna, and if Sanctus needed a private meeting with anyone, it would definitely be with Credo.

"Report to His Holiness that I will be there momentarily," Credo commanded. The boy nodded jerkily before saluting the captain.

"Yes, sir," he chirped before whirling around to trot off. Before he could go anywhere, however, Credo stopped him.

"Jacob," Credo said gently. The boy froze, seeming nervous that the captain had called him by his name.

"Yes, Captain Credo, sir?" he asked as he craned his neck to peek through the doorway, nearly tying his tongue in knots trying to ask such a simple question.

"Remember to knock next time."

"Oh! Uh, sorry, sir. Ye'sir… I won't forget next time, sir."

Credo nodded, not saying another word, and the messenger took that as his cue to leave. The captain sighed once the door swung closed, wondering what Sanctus could possibly want to discuss. He plucked the quill from the bottle to finish signing all the lines on the document he had examined prior to being interrupted, muttering all the while about his unfulfilled desire to simply be left alone for one day.

* * *

"You sent for me, Your Holiness?" Credo said as he stopped behind his seat at Sanctus' right hand, bowing slightly and placing a hand over his heart.

"Ah… Credo," Sanctus rasped. "Thank you for honoring my request. Please… sit." The old priest gestured to Credo's chair with a bony hand, and the captain nodded, taking his usual seat. Brown eyes darted around the table, noting how odd it felt to be the only other knight sitting at the round table.

"How are you faring today, my son?" asked His Holiness in a gentle breath. Credo forced himself to forget how the priest's voice always reminded him of a snake.

"Fine," Credo replied, inexplicably unsettled by Sanctus' unusual friendliness. The priest was never unkind, but to say he was friendly would be a stretch.

"Ah, excellent," he replied, his voice croaking as it rose in pitch. He patted Credo on the hand, and the captain was so startled he nearly jerked his hand away. It wasn't as if Sanctus had never done so before, but Credo had a nervous inkling that the man was trying to butter him up for something.

"You are probably wondering why I've asked you here today…"

"Well, it was a bit unexpected, Your Holiness," Credo stated frankly.

"I apologize for not warning you ahead of time," Sanctus replied glibly. "I had been… considering meeting with you for a while, but I didn't quite decide on it until today."

Credo nodded, replying simply, "It's not an issue I'm overly concerned with." He wanted to hurry Sanctus along. The old priest always took far too long to get straight to the point.

"Well, we shall get this meeting underway then," said His Holiness, and Credo was actually unnerved by the smile that followed those words. Sanctus was acting strange—there was no doubt about that. But Credo wanted to know exactly why. He sincerely hoped Sanctus wasn't about to initiate another unwinnable argument with him, but it was certainly looking that way. Credo never understood why Sanctus called him to council if he refused to accept the captain's advice, anyway. Perhaps, it was to test Credo's loyalty. If so, he knew his score was rather poor.

"You know what I want from this world," Sanctus declared, his voice not at all questioning. Why would it be? The priest had spoon-fed Credo his beliefs since the captain was just a young knight.

"Of course, Your Holiness. You seek a perfect world—A… utopia." Credo watched Sanctus' face, awaiting his approval. When it didn't come, the captain continued. "You seek to cleanse this world of its sin."

"Absolutely," Sanctus replied. "That is what I have dreamt of since I was just a boy… And I believe I've finally discovered how I might accomplish it."

The two locked eyes for a long and tense moment, the silence weighing oppressively on Credo's shoulders. He could already smell another one of Sanctus' crackpot plans, but he had to listen because he was the captain.

"I'm listening," Credo clarified, and Sanctus sighed, already sensing the captain's disapproval.

"Credo, why is it that you always refuse to support my plans?" Sanctus asked, voice curious but exhausted.

"You call me here to advise you, Your Holiness," Credo replied matter-of-factly. "I feel I am only being honest by openly disagreeing. I don't think it would be fair to you if I gave false support."

Clasping his hands beneath his chin, Sanctus nodded, scrutinizing Credo with squinted eyes. "I suppose that is true…"

"So what is His Holiness' plan? If I may ask, of course."

"Agnus has been working from dawn 'til dusk over the entire month," Sanctus began sagely, staring blankly at the far wall. "You would be amazed at the progress he has made."

Credo wanted to sneer at the mention of Agnus' name. Without a doubt, Credo was the scientist's arch nemesis. The only reason Agnus was not his own was that Credo didn't consider the man even a minor threat. He thought himself influential and invincible, but he had no victories to hold over the captain's head. He wanted so desperately to be Sanctus' little pet that he agreed to every plan the priest proposed, no matter how convoluted or depraved. He didn't care to sacrifice his individuality or his dignity if it meant he could become Sanctus' right hand. His efforts were laughable to the captain because Sanctus still considered him a mere scientist, a _cog_, and nothing more.

"What innovations has his research yielded, Your Holiness?" Credo asked, pretending to be curious. Actually, he was, but the captain was more eager to hear what insane schemes the two had cooked up beneath his nose than eager to join them.

"He has discovered how to create _angels_," Sanctus sounded utterly blissful when the final word rolled off his tongue. Credo wasn't sure how to feel about the declaration, but he was certainly shocked into silence for a brief moment.

"'Angels'?" parroted the captain. "But how is that even possible?"

"Ah… I knew you would be interested," Sanctus declared cockily. Credo furrowed his brow.

"Don't mistake my curiosity for condonance." Sanctus' face fell, becoming exasperated as if he was dealing with a petulant child.

"Of course, you refuse to open your mind to the amazing possibilities Agnus' experiments will yield. I'm ashamed to admit I expected more of you."

There was a bitter taste in Credo's mouth. He was offended by Sanctus implications that he was pigheaded, and he knew the priest meant to offend him. He was always so passive aggressive, and that was something about him that never ceased to annoy the captain.

"Your Holiness, you must understand that I have to hear any proposal with skepticism. Please, continue."

The priest's face relaxed again and he continued. "Throughout the course of his experiments, Agnus has discovered an amazing power." Sanctus eyed Credo for a long moment as if considering how much longer he should draw their discussion out. He finally decided to get straight to the point. "I want to use it to resurrect the Savior."

"_What_?" Credo blurted, dumbfounded. "But, Your Holiness… you know the Savior it… i-it's meant for a time of grave emergency… The end of the world, even."

"Ah, yes, Credo, but you know how I feel about the world's current state. With all the sin in the cities and their… _bars_ and clubs and what-not, the end is nearing rapidly. It will be upon us before we know it, and if we don't act now, it may catch us by surprise."

"Well…" Credo said, pausing to consider Sanctus' words. He supposed there was a degree of truth to what the priest was saying, but he couldn't ignore the feeling in his gut that whatever His Holiness was planning would be nothing good or pleasant for the world. "What do you plan to do?"

"I am going to use the power of the Savior to rid this world of sin," he declared peremptorily. Credo felt his stomach sink through the floor. He knew the horrid truth behind that vague statement.

"Are you sure that's the best way to go about this?"

"Credo," His Holiness sighed, "my perfect world… Do you want to live in it or do you want to be left behind?"

Credo's mouth opened but only syllables crackled out of his throat. He had to take a moment to think about what he would be agreeing to if he said "yes".

"I do," he said finally, though he tried to ignore the shame he felt. "I want to live in it."

"Then, I expect to see you in the laboratory by tomorrow evening," Sanctus announced as he rose from his chair.

"What? The laboratory?" Credo asked, confused. "Why?"

"You, Credo," Sanctus replied, placing a hand on the captain's shoulder, "are going to be my first successful angel."

Credo paled at the use of "successful" in the priest's statement. Exactly how many failed attempts at creating angels had he already made? And he planned to perform such a dangerous procedure on the captain?

By the time Credo's mind returned to reality, Sanctus had left the room. "Dear God," Credo breathed, falling back into his own chair. The soft, scarlet cushions hugged his body, but they failed to comfort him as they usually did. His and Sanctus' discussion had watered down the gravity of the situation. Sanctus spoke of his plans as if he was going to do something great for the world while ignoring how painful and horrid that process was. Credo knew what he meant when he said he wanted to "rid the world of its sin". He would eliminate it at its source, and the source of sin, Credo knew, was man. Sanctus was going to murder those he deemed unworthy to cleanse the world, but wouldn't that be a greater sin than what he sought to eliminate? Credo was torn asunder. On one hand, there was no way to sugarcoat the genocide Sanctus planned to unleash on the world. However, on the other hand, a perfect world was something everyone desired. Was such death and destruction that the Savior could wrought the price to be paid to live in that wonderful, peaceful utopia? Credo tried to ignore the shame he felt in agreeing to Sanctus' plan because he knew that if the priest had no qualms with killing sinners, he probably wouldn't be so merciful to the captain when it all boiled down.

_knock knock knock-knock knock_

"Hey, you…" Credo's head whirled around to a familiar voice, and he perked up a little at seeing Nero smiling in the doorway. "How did I know I'd find you sulking in here?"

"Why are you here?" asked Credo, concealing a small smile behind the hand cradling his head. "You know you aren't supposed to come in here without request." Nero snorted.

"Like fuck if I care," he chuckled, apologizing when he saw the disapproval toward his language that marred Credo's jovial expression. "I was just wondering if you'd like to go kick some demon ass with me."

Credo sniffed and shook his head, though the gesture was fond. _Apologize and then do it again… He never learns._ At that thought, Credo suddenly remembered Sanctus' disapproval toward Nero. In all honesty, His Holiness didn't like Nero. He was a free thinker and disagreed with nearly every principle the church tried to instill in him. Did he view Nero as a sinner? A heretic? When he started to cleanse the world, would he try to eliminate Nero along with all the other sinners? Credo felt many things at that realization—fear, rage, solemnness—but above all, he felt resolution, _determination_. If Sanctus so much as dared to lay a finger on his younger brother, all those years of following in the priest's footsteps, admiring him, desiring to be like him would be gone like smoke in open air. The captain didn't give a damn what Sanctus was to him—father figure, guide, mentor—because Nero meant so much more. And unfortunately, Credo's gut was warning him that that was exactly what Sanctus' plot was going to come to.

_So be it,_ thought the captain. _If he dares to threaten my family, he'll become my greatest rival._ Credo's mind reminded him, however, that, perhaps, Nero was another price to pay for that perfect utopia. And Credo had to ask himself what was more important to the world: his beloved brother or peace and an end to suffering? When the answer came to him, Credo felt tears sting his eyes.

"Hey… Yoo-hoo," Nero called. Credo's train of thought crashed and his attention returned to Nero. It was only then that he realized he had been boring holes into the table before him. "Don't zone out on me, man. Are you coming or not?"

"You know my duty is to stay here and finish my work," Credo deadpanned, seeing how Nero's expression sobered a bit at his words. "But I suppose I can make an exception for _you_… just this once."

Nero grinned widely. "Ah-hah, yeah! I knew you would," Nero admitted, cocksure as ever, as Credo walked toward him. He was taken by utter surprise, however, when the captain locked him into a tight hug. Nero stared, dumbfounded, over his brother's shoulder at the floor.

"I love you, Nero," Credo whispered, his voice utterly grave.

"I, uh… I love you, too, Credo." Nero slowly wrapped his arms around his brother, wondering if Credo was drunk. Or even worse, if Credo was upset about something. Somehow, Nero doubted both of those possibilities. He was probably just in a weird mood or something. Nero idly rubbed Credo's back until his brother finally patted him on the back and released him. When they were at arm's length, Nero stared a tad solicitously at the captain.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Credo teased. "Let's go kick some demon ass."

Nero burst into cacophonous laughter, tears welling in his eyes. He couldn't breathe enough to tell Credo how ridiculous he sounded speaking such colloquial language. Instead, he let his older brother drag his wheezing body toward the door, muttering all the while about "kids these days".


	4. Theme Five: Unbreakable

**100 Theme Challenge**

**Theme:** Unbreakable

**Fandom/Universe:** DMC

**Character(s):** Dante

**Genre(s): **Angst

**Warnings: **Language, Violence, Blood/Gore

* * *

The demon's toothy grin was a blemish on the beautiful face it wore. Taking such a pure, beloved visage upon its mangled, sinister form, to Dante, was blasphemous. His blood boiled at the very sight, and something stirred deep inside, pinching the emotions he felt into a tight ball that weighed uncomfortably in his heart. Like all other wounds he bore, however, the halfbreed tolerated the pain, channeling it instead into resolution. He brandished the heavy broadsword from his back, slinging it harshly as if blood already dripped from its glistening blade. Despite how pristinely clean the blade was, it was so close to revenge that the devil hunter could already taste sweet sanguine on his tongue. His brow tensed, frosty gaze intense. He wore the eyes of a ravenous wolf readying itself for a kill, but the foolish demon had not the sense to back down. Rather, it seemed to coo delightedly in its rumbling, gravelly growl of a voice, grinning so widely his mother's lips cracked at the corners. However, the face softened, retaining its original smooth shape, and the demon hissed in a voice Dante wished he didn't recognize.

"Does it not bother you to see me, Dante, in such a... _compromising_ state?" asked the devil, so audacious as to refer to itself as if it was Dante's mother, Eva.

"Compromising?" repeated the hunter quizzically. "Your body's about to be a lot more 'compromised' than it is now, pal, and that don't bother me in the least."

The demon barked raspy squeals that Dante assumed were supposed to mimic laughter. "How curious," it hissed. "Even as you pretend to be unaffected, your pain is obvious."

"The only pain I'm feeling is the headache you're givin' me with all that bullshit coming out of your mouth. You think killing your ugly ass is gonna pain me in any way?"

"You can play all you want," snapped the devil with a sneer, "but your emotions are written 'cross that pretty face... No matter—I do not need to see what agony this causes you. I assure you, slaughtering that whoring wretch was far beyond sufficient." Dante felt his stomach turn when the demon ran a cold, clawed finger up his throat, tickling his chin. "You should have heard her screaming and begging. Pathetic wen—!"

Dante decided when the demon had said enough, and the devil hunter punctuated its words with a swift decapitation. The black, scrawny demon, it's body exposed when the charm disguising it was abruptly broken, writhed on the grassy terrain, its jowls parting to futilely gulp for air. Dante stood over the gory sight, a sadistic pleasure tingling in his gut. Empty, red eyes, full of abhorrence, were locked on him, and they seemed to smolder in their sockets with the intensity with which they stared at him. Face cold, cruel, Dante pierced the heart of the devil with his sword, forcing its expression into one of shock. However, before its brain had the chance to shut down, he slid Ebony into its maw and pulled the trigger. Brain matter splattered onto the marbled tombstone behind it, blackish blood pooling in the engraved epitaph.

As Dante stared at the monument, all traces of the demon disappeared in wispy clouds of black. Once it was clean again, the hunter stabbed Rebellion into the soft earth and fell to his knees before the tombstone. His blue eyes pointed toward it, but his gaze pierced beyond the marble, staring at something that existed thousands of miles off in the blackness of his mind.

"I'll find them all," he rasped as if speaking to the stone before him. However, it wasn't the grave of his mother but of a stranger. Her body had never been found. Still, the hunter kneeled there, closing his eyes and inhaling the musty air. He reveled in the facade of long-sought closure as thunder roared above him, and the rain drenched him so quickly that the warm drops running down his cheeks were made invisible.


	5. Theme Six: Obsession

**Theme:** Obsession

**Character(s):**Agnus, Nero, Kyrie

**Genre(s):** I'm... not entirely sure.

**Warnings:** Mild Language, Creepiness

* * *

Machines humming in a claustrophobic laboratory deep beneath the earth were his only friends, his only family. Even then, the scientist only had time for them because of his research and that alone. It was because of such neglect that his own people had abandoned him, and he retreated into the shadier side of The Order's business to live years of his life as a recluse. Work was all that he knew, and, without it, Insanity's grimy claws would wrap themselves about his mind. Perhaps, they already had, but his research was ceaseless, and if ever he yearned to do the horrendous things reserved for the criminally insane, his research kept him anchored to civility, whether he knew it or not.

Agnus pressed the sticky lip of his mug, long overdue for a wash, to his mouth and took several loud gulps. Room temperature coffee was notorious for tasting horrid, but the taste seldom even registered in his mind. All his focus went to the words and pictures clipped and stapled into the manila folder sprawled upon his desk. The pages it contained were stained with rings of coffee and bloody fingerprints, and such blemishes on such vital documents may have made him seem careless, but, if anything, the various smudges and smears were endearing to him like holes in a favored pair of jeans. Agnus studied the folder's contents so religiously that he had memorized every single drop of spittle, breadcrumb, brown coffee ring and suspicious smudge. He knew those stains like the back of his hand, or, more accurately, like the words printed on the dirtied pages.

_White, male, 21_—those words played over and over in the scientist's mind like a song he had heard far too many times. Indeed, Agnus studied the contents of the folder at least five times a day, though he had possessed the same information for an entire six months. His intern once questioned why he studied the folder so adamantly. The only reply he could formulate was, "I'm afraid I will forget." Forget what exactly? Not even Agnus himself was sure, but he knew that when the urge came to study, nothing else in the world could be more significant than the same lines he had read a thousand times. He dropped everything—sometimes literally as he would drop any food he was eating at his feet—to run to his desk and throw the folder open. That folder was his mistress, and anytime she opened her legs to him, he was there to indulge her.

The burly man chuckled darkly as his chocolate eyes settled on a crinkled photograph secured with a paperclip. The young man in the picture was so aloof, so unaware that his face at that very moment was being committed to The Order's permanent memory with the press of a camera's button. He was so clueless in every photo Agnus had, and the expression made the scientist's gut bubble with delight. He longed to have that boy in his hands. The poor fool thought he had concealed his deepest, darkest secrets from the world, and maybe he had, but The Order transcended worldly power. It was nothing short of Sparda's grace that allowed them such power, and if the boy thought his secrets would remain hidden from The Order until his death, he was sorely mistaken. They knew, and they already had plans for him.

All of those plans were in Agnus' hands, of course. Once he procured the boy, his first course of action would be to dissect him. The scientist had to know what treasures were contained within that arm he kept constantly bandaged and hanging in a sling. Were commoners so stupid as to be fooled by such an implausible ruse? What kind of injury remained unhealed for over five years?

_An unnatural one, that's what._

Fortuna's lot of idiots fell for the demon's smoke and mirrors, but Agnus wouldn't have it any other way. That boy's body was _his_, and he preferred its potential remained unknown to anyone but himself. If the townsfolk discovered what the boy was hiding, they would probably have him executed or chase him away with torches and pitchforks. To throw away such a perfect specimen would sicken the scientist. Thus, he took every measure to ensure that he and he alone knew. The Order, suspicious of the boy, would gather all of his information, but, in the end, Agnus was the only one who knew what such work would yield. Once he extracted the power contained within that boy, he could perfect the ascension, and never again would The Order lose men to failed transformations. No, they would have an army of angels. And, even better, he might even be able to resurrect Yamato. Oh, how pleased His Holiness would be with him then. Sanctus would have the world in his hands, and he could stop kissing the feet of that wretched Credo.

_Useless son of a whore does nothing for His Holiness' ambitions. The leech pretends to desire the world Sanctus promises, but he is so unwilling to make sacrifices._ Sacrifices—Agnus had left everything behind for Sanctus' dream of a perfect utopia. What had Credo given up? A few more hours to spend with his loving family every single day? And, yet, he was still Sanctus' right hand. Agnus sought to change that.

The scientist's head jerked up when he heard a knock at the door, his black, greasy ponytail falling over his shoulder.

"Come in," he commanded after clearing his throat, standing beside his rolling chair and obscuring his desk with his wide body. As he picked at the dark skin of his hands, a more painful version of twiddling his thumbs, his intern came through the door, an item most interesting pinched betwixt his fingers. The familiar cream color caught Agnus' undivided attention in an instant, and his heart began to pound excitedly against his ribcage.

"The captain asked that I bring you this package of updated information. His men have uncovered an extensive collection of information on the subject." The young intern presented the glorious folder to Agnus in his outstretched hand, and the scientist reached for it with a clammy hand.

"The Savior is quick approaching," said the young man. "Have you made any progress in stabilizing the ascension process?"

As Agnus stared at the folder in his hands, he could only wish that that annoying twit would leave him be without another word. "Trust that I will be fully prepared when the day comes."

Nodding, the intern stood and stared for a pregnant pause as if expecting Agnus to say more. When the man ignored him, the blond bid the scientist a good evening and left the laboratory. Agnus wasn't sure what The Order had him doing, and he didn't particularly care. His only care was in the new, unmarred folder that weighed so comfortably in his hand. Flipping it open, his eyes darted across the pages before a wide grin split across his face.

"Yes," he groaned breathily in perverse gratification, "everything is falling right into place."

Seeing that the age in the folder had been changed to 22, Agnus began to sing a jaunty "happy birthday" to his perfect specimen, punctuating the verses with maniacal cackles of glee.

* * *

Nero rubbed agitatedly at the back of his head when he again felt his hair prickle. All day, the young knight had felt the keen sensation that he was being watched, yet no amount of examining his surroundings had yielded the discovery of anyone suspicious. The birds chirped softly in the trees, and the delicate tendrils of the willow behind him swayed in the gentle breeze. The sun was just barely setting, the sky beginning to turn a calming shade of pink. The air was only lightly humid and warm, not blazing hot as it had been earlier that day. He couldn't have picked a more perfect afternoon to spend with Kyrie, so why was his body ruining it by trying to convince him he was being watched?

"Nero?" called Kyrie softly, fiddling with the fabric of her dress. Her brown eyes were slightly concerned as she looked over at the young man seated on the low rock wall. "Is something bothering you?"

Nero sighed and nodded his head. "Yeah, I just... I feel like I'm being watched."

Kyrie visibly tensed at those words, nervous. "Could it be demons?" she asked. Since the day she was ambushed while taking a group of orphans from Fortuna's orphanage, the songstress had feared that they would again be attacked by the bloodthirsty murder machines that were demons. She was more worried for Nero than herself, however. He was the one who had gotten injured protecting her the last time, and his arm had been useless since.

"I don't think so," Nero replied calmly, reassuring her. "If there were any around, I'd know."

Kyrie quirked a brow. "How can you know?"

"Well," began Nero, rubbing at the back of his neck, "after you deal with them for so long, I guess you just learn how." Nero didn't want to say that he could smell the wretched creatures or that his demonic arm, mutated into an armored abomination by the demon that had attacked him years ago, pulsated and shone with a bright, blue light when demons were nearby.

Kyrie nodded, not seeming the least bit doubtful. It was obvious that she trusted him with her life, and Nero wasn't sure if he liked the idea of that considering that something was definitely spying on them, and he had no clue what it was.

"What then?" asked the brunette as she scooted close to the knight's side, laying her head on his shoulder. Nero couldn't wrap his arm around her as it was restricted by the sling he wore, but he leaned his own head onto hers. He wasn't sure if he did it for the comfort it brought him or to hide the way he narrowed his eyes at the building across from them that he had thought long abandoned.

"It's... probably nothing."

* * *

**A/N:** Another update so quick! Isn't that awesome? I really had fun writing this, and hope you all have fun reading it. No one ever reviews anymore, so I can't possibly know that, but I hope it nonetheless. I wanted to share with you all that I am having a kiriban on dA. It's a contest to see who can be the 1,000th viewer of my dA page. If you would like to participate, visit my dA page under the name blood-of-dusk. The journal entry that is on there now goes over all the details. If you win, you get any kind of DMC fanfic of your choice. You don't have to have a dA account either. As long as you have a FFN account, you could just PM me here and get my email to send me your winning screenshot if you happen to win. If you do decide to participate, drop me a comment on dA. I greatly appreciate your patronage! Thanks for reading.


	6. Theme Seven: Eternity

**Theme:** Eternity

**Character(s):** Vergil

**Warnings:** none

* * *

Vergil gazed at his own dark reflection in the empty glass always gleaming as if it had just been cleaned. The windows never yielded anything more than his own reflection, yet, somehow, he preferred the deathly blackness beyond to seeing his own face. He felt compelled to shatter his image with the heavy book in his hand, but Vergil was unsure what would become of him if he were to make an opening for the darkness to seep in or if the glass was even real. For the first time in his entire life, he had no way of truly knowing if he was living, if his accursed prison existed in reality, or if it was all simply an illusion. Of all the times he had descended into Hell, where up could be down or left or right and black was never actually black, that realization was almost hysterically laughable. He might have given into the urge to cackle over it if he didn't fear proving his insanity to the walls that confined him.

Sighing, the halfbreed turned away from himself and made his way for the writing desk, rustling the deeply violaceous curtains as he passed. In truth, it was not a writing desk but a piano. However, when he stroked its ivory keys, every one produced a different sound than it should, and it was not because he lacked the skill to play it properly. He wished the explanation was that simple. Nevertheless, that rendered the piano useless until Vergil had discovered another use for it.

Opening the book to a random page, Vergil seated himself upon the red upholstered bench and brandished the quill that had appeared in his hand sometime after he decided that he needed one. It was already dripping heavy drops of sanguine onto the blank page, in no need of ink. Upon watching the red ink evaporate in clouds of smoke, Vergil recalled the first day he had opened that book. It wasn't always blank; its pages were once literally weighted with word after word. He never had a chance to read a single one, however, because the moment he opened it to the first page, every letter floated up to the ceiling. Vergil then flipped through every page, hoping to catch a single word. However, they all floated up to the ceiling, just as the first, where they were still gathered in a thickly black pile where he had stood before the bookcase. Occasionally, one would drip down onto the rug, but he never could catch it before it evaporated into nothing but thin air. Every book in the shelf did the same, but at the very least, they were all much lighter afterward.

It was only when he touched pen to paper that the half-demon realized his words would not stick to the page any better than the ones that had been printed there. He had chosen that book to be his journal, and the letters of his name that he had carved into its leather-bound cover with a butter knife still leaked blood upon his hands. He had done so before he discovered he no longer possessed the power to scrawl words onto paper. The thought managed to enrage him within mere moments, and the quill snapped like uncooked pasta in his hand, leaking some sort of grainy, black substance that could only be described as soot before the quill itself decomposed into powder. He slammed the book closed, and the powder that blew out nearly choked him. That didn't stop him, however, from chucking the book at the wall. It left a sizable hole in the wall as if it was made of paper. Then, lit candles from the nearby dining table, china he had never used, houseplants that never needed water and all manner of objects began flying toward the wall as if a black hole had been created. Vergil's arms swung about as he attempted to remain upright while the suction pulled him toward the hole. The ceramic pot of a small plant smashed upon his head before his body was battered by countless other objects. Eventually, a book hit his head hard enough that he was stricken with the sense to do something to stop it. He plucked a picture frame from the wall above and placed it over the hole.

As his illogical logic had anticipated, he was no longer being sucked into oblivion, and everything that had been drawn toward the hole simply sunk into the wall and disappeared. Not even he could impede the objects as he felt several simply pass through his body as if he seldom even existed, slithering like smooth earthworms between his organs. Steadying his breath, frosty eyes were glued to the corner as his mind attempted to make sense of what had just happened. Vergil wasn't sure if the fact that his mind did, indeed, rationalize it should relieve or concern him. He tried to erase all memory of the conundrum from his mind as he fell back upon the bench, hoping it wouldn't disappear from beneath him. He had already seen several items disappear from the room never to be seen again. He could touch, smell, taste and even hear them where they once existed. His brain was even convinced that he could still see them, but all he saw was empty space.

A disheartened sigh left the man's lips as his gloved fingers threaded through his hair. It was a sound he had become far more familiar with since he awoke in that chamber however long ago. His hands moved almost as if they had a mind all their own, and he picked the picture frame from the wall as if a black hole had never existed behind it. Perhaps, he forgot all about it because the wall was completely repaired when he removed the frame from it. Or, perhaps, he was far too focused on the photograph it contained to notice. It was a picture of Dante, himself and their mother that Vergil couldn't remember ever hanging upon the wall. His own face was so unfamiliar to him and not only because he was far younger in the photograph. He was smiling. His smile wasn't as wide as Dante's or as warm as his mother's, but it was a sincere smile—one that had contorted his face in far happier times he could no longer recall. He very vaguely remembered that Christmas, but the years following had nearly washed it completely from his mind. He did retain, however, that that was the last Christmas they all spent together before a pack of bloodthirsty devils murdered dear Eva in the dead of night.

Vergil would have shed a tear if he hadn't robbed himself of the ability to cry. It was upon that night that his ruthless hunger for power began. Against all her screaming and begging, Vergil had stayed behind to defend his mother with the meager swordsmanship he had gained through scattered sessions of practice. His failure was inevitable, and he stumbled out of the house they had all shared for as long as he could remember, covered with blood that wasn't only his own. His memory was too hazy for the halfbreed to remember exactly how he had ended up in the cemetery down the hill, but he was propped against a gravestone when voices cackled at him from the darkness. A ghastly face appeared below the treetops that cast the land beyond in thick shadows, its teeth sparkling pristinely white—so clean they almost begged to be sullied by his blood and flesh. The toothy maw mocked his failure, several others appearing to join it, before offering him a helpful little tip. _Power_, it said, was what he needed. He needed power or he could protect nothing, and to his immature mind that was plagued with constant uncertainty, nothing had ever made more sense. That was the final night he saw Dante for years, and he still hadn't been reunited with himself. Sometimes, he felt he was slowly coming back, but Vergil wasn't certain he deserved to be that person again.

_Oh, Dante,_ thought he, eyes tightly shut and breaths labored, _if only I could have one last chance._ His brother had offered him that final chance to turn his life around, but he had chosen instead to fall into Hell. Not without leaving Dante with a scarred palm to remember him by, of course. There were some nights that Vergil sat awake and wondered if Dante still had that scar or if it had disappeared completely. That was most nights, for he no longer needed sleep. He never thought he would miss it so much despite that he never felt tired. What Vergil wouldn't give to sleep forever. Fate denied him even that simple luxury, however. If he was sure of nothing else, Vergil was certain he was damned to spend his eternity there.

* * *

**A/N:** This is my first fanfic with Vergil, so critiques would be greatly appreciated. Please review!


	7. Theme Eight: Gateway

**Theme:** Gateway

**Character(s):** Nero

**Warnings:** Language

* * *

Nero strolled through the forest, hands tucked into his pockets. Of all the horrible things the Savior brought on, the forest had to be the only positive outcome. After he kicked Echidna's ass to the curb, it became nothing more than a scenic walking trail with the occasional weak demon to entertain more adventurous travelers—AKA himself because it was still too dangerous for commoners. Arguably, Sanctus' death was also something positive. However, Nero had to admit that if the old, crazy bastard hadn't been so corrupt, he wouldn't have minded if he lived for a hundred more years despite all the ludicrous bullshit that spewed from his mouth into the ears of Fortuna's sheep.

_I mean, shit, if you're gonna worship a demon, worship a fucking demon. Don't make it out to be something it's not._

Nero knew Fortuna's strange cultist religion probably pissed him off more than it should have. For the most part, he thought all religions were bullshit anyway, but Fortuna took bullshit to an extreme. On the outside, it seemed something like Christianity except everyone dressed in similar attire and women only wore dresses. The Fortunians believed in God, keyword being "believed" because that didn't mean they worshipped Him. Maybe as a side character in their little epic, but the "angel" Sparda occupied the church's central focus. That was the part where the whole thing became sickeningly irritating to Nero. They regarded some demon as an angel just because he saved the human race.

_I guess that makes me an angel, too, huh?_ Nero had saved Fortuna from Sanctus' diabolical plans. Where were his commemorative statue and church? Snorting, Nero shook his head and muttered, "I wouldn't want one anyway." Nero supposed what pissed him off the most about Fortuna was that their corrupt religion had poisoned dear Kyrie's mind. He would never want to be the poison in others' heads.

Sighing, Nero purged that train of thought from his mind. He had had enough of brooding for one day. Regardless, he had finally come to the place he ventured into the forest for. It was the same battleground on which he had fought Echidna. The demons leftover from the opening of the artificial gates often conglomerated there as if seeking something. Nero didn't really care what they were doing. It was simply convenient that so many of them gathered in such a prime spot for combat. With the lack of demons in town and the surrounding areas, he needed some game every once in awhile to keep him occupied.

However, once he set foot upon the open field, Nero found that it was strangely vacant of demons. In fact, it was vacant of _anything_. It was eerily silent, no birds chirping or tiny creatures rustling in the brush. The air smelled lightly of ozone, and dense, gray clouds that hadn't been in the sky a moment before appeared. Nero hummed curiously, perplexed and concerned by those most recent developments. What concerned him the most, however, was the energy he felt radiating from the remains of the hellgate Dante had destroyed. The hunter approached the largest chunk of stone and spread his palm flat against it. What he found made a furrow come upon his brow.

It was warm.


	8. Theme Nine: Death

**Theme:** Death

**Character(s):** Nero, Dante

**Warnings:** Language, Character Death

* * *

The earth quaked beneath his feet as Nero sprinted into town, black shadows rolling behind his heels. He was far more concerned about the townspeople than the horde of demons at his back. If he had time to make sense of what had just happened, he would have been dumbfounded for an explanation. He was simply walking away from the destroyed hellgate in Mitis Forest when every little chunk and crumb of stone was magnetized to the spot where the gate stood before, each piece falling back into its exact place. It was at that moment that Nero heard what sounded like a dam bursting in town, the ground trembling beneath him. Just as the same happened behind him, Nero bolted for town.

Upon reaching the plaza, Nero caught glimpses of the reincarnated gate that was once Fortuna's landmark, towering behind the renovated opera house. The black demons circling through the air were so thick that he could barely see beyond ten feet. It was as if he had gone back in time to that fateful day two years ago when Sanctus unleashed utter chaos onto the peaceful island. People were screaming and darting for their houses. Some made it inside, others were struck down before they could even reach the front steps. Nero could only stand and stare in shock at such sudden chaos before he got the sense to brandish Red Queen and save the people he swore he would protect when he became a knight.

However, after cutting several devils down, Nero was again frozen by a curious sight. He noticed demons lying about that he knew he hadn't killed himself.

_The knights didn't kill them either,_ he mused. There was nary a knight in sight, and half the time, they were all too cowardly to do anything.

"Hey, kid!" Nero whirled around, narrowly dodging a Scarecrow's blade, to find none other than Dante smirking at him. "Long time no see, eh?"

Nero would have been happy or at least mildly interested if the man's presence didn't signify that something horrible was happening. Fortuna had had demon problems between then and the Savior, but Dante had never showed up for those. If he was there, Nero knew it could only mean that the world was ending... again.

"How's that girlfriend of yours?" asked Dante before cleaving a Scarecrow in two. Nero gasped the moment Dante asked that question for two reasons. For one, a rusty blade skimmed his thigh, slicing his jeans and a thin wound in his skin. However, the biggest reason was that he hadn't thought about Kyrie until that moment. She had just returned from a missionary assignment that morning, and he had completely forgotten she was even in Fortuna.

"Kyrie," he called, turning tail and sprinting off in the opposite direction. Dante would probably find his behavior humorous, the smirking bastard, but Nero didn't care. Kyrie was more important than anything else, especially Dante's opinion of him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he breathed over and over as he darted for the nearby apartment they shared. As he grew closer to the building, Nero could see that the window of their bedroom upstairs had been shattered. He almost tripped over the steps as he slammed through the front door, splintering the frame where the hinges attached. He kept telling himself everything was fine, but the strong smell of blood nearly made him gag as it wafted into his face. It was at that point that he started trembling in fear—fear of what he might find.

"Kyrie?" he called nervously, voice shaking. His stomach was in knots, and everything inside him was begging her sweet voice to reply, say she was frying herself an egg and ask him if he wanted one, too. But her reply never came, and Nero forced his legs to carry him into the room. He stepped slowly into the hall and peeked into the kitchen. There was no sign of her there, but the scent of blood had grown so much stronger. He almost wanted to run out of the building and never look back, but Nero stiffened his legs against those urges. He could see that no one was in the bathroom straight ahead.

However, when Nero turned to his right to head upstairs, his knees buckled at what he saw, and he braced a hand against the wall to keep from collapsing. On the landing laid a bloody heap, unmoving. He only knew it was Kyrie because he recognized her dress. She was curled in on herself, her back facing him. As Nero moved slowly up the steps, he had never been more terrified in his life. Kyrie had to be alive. She was only unconscious.

"K-kyrie?" he said, sounding out of breath. Upon cresting the final step, Nero could see that there were three dark spots on her stomach to match the ones on her back. The realization that something stabbed her three times was so horrendous Nero couldn't even bring himself to think it. He forced it from his mind as soon as it entered. Kyrie was hurt, but he would run her to the hospital and she would be fine.

However, when Nero pressed his fingers against her neck, he felt no pulse. He searched frantically for it several minutes, but his search was fruitless. That wasn't enough. Nero had to hold his hand and ear above her mouth to see if she was breathing. She wasn't. Then, he listened for a heartbeat, staining his cheek with blood. Nothing. By that point, he was hyperventilating.

"Oh, no," he rasped, collapsing on the edge of the landing. His claws dug into the beige carpet, holding on for dear life as if he would float away if he let go. "No," he moaned, the sound degenerating into breathy sobs. His head sank slowly onto the bloodstained carpet, and he simply breathed for a moment. Then, Nero grit his teeth so hard it felt his jaw might break and screamed short, gravelly screams, bashing his head onto the floor. He screamed until his eyeballs felt like they would explode and he started to black out.

Afterward, he felt weak, and the young part-devil went limp, sobbing deep sobs into the carpet. He wasn't aware that he was not alone until a hand settled on his shoulder, lightly squeezing. For some reason, Dante's tenderness enraged him, but Nero couldn't bring himself to snap at the man or jerk away from his touch. He didn't even want to move, and if he could have suddenly died right at that moment, he would have.

"I'm sorry, kid..."


	9. Theme Ten: Opportunities

**Theme:** Opportunities

**Character(s):** Nero, Kyrie, slight bit of Dante

**Genre(s):** Eh... general?

**Warnings:** Language

* * *

Nero hesitated to turn away from his business—his _dream_. It had been a year since he opened the doors of his demon hunting business, ready to help the troubled citizens of Fortuna. However, the young hunter quickly discovered that the people of Fortuna weren't as troubled as he had anticipated. He thought there were more demons left behind after the Savior, but it seemed they all decided to hightail it out of town the very day Nero opened his shop. And, Hell, maybe they did, but Nero never thought they would give up so easily.

Sighing, Nero finally whirled around and headed off in the opposite direction of his beloved shop, brought to a premature death by financial struggles. For once in his life, he was dreading seeing Kyrie's smiling face at the door, welcoming him into her home. When Nero finally accepted the realization that he wasn't going to be able to keep his shop open, he was forced to ask Kyrie if he could stay with her until he found a new job and his own place. It was humiliating even if Nero knew Kyrie would never look down on him for it, but the part-devil would rather bruise his ego than sleep on the streets every night. As expected, Kyrie delightedly invited him to her home, adding, "You can stay as long as you need to!"

Grabbing the iron knocker from Kyrie's door, Nero knocked three times and stood back to wait. He didn't have to wait long. Kyrie rushed excitedly to the door as if she had been waiting for him all day. Her exuberant face was tinted a rosy pink and her eyes almost seemed to sparkle as she squealed out an overzealous greeting. Nero almost wasn't sure how to respond to such unbridled excitement. He broke up with Kyrie about a month after he opened his shop because it simply felt too strange to be her boyfriend when they had practically grown up as siblings, despite that Nero wasn't a biological member of the family. Even though Kyrie said she agreed at the time, Nero could tell several weeks later that she still hadn't completely gotten over him. However, Nero eventually decided that she seemed to have moved on, but maybe she was still a tad attached.

Nero's face twisted into a smile half forced and he wrapped his arms tightly around the songstress' waist, but he could only inwardly sigh and think, _Great, now I just feel awkward._

"Come in, Nero," Kyrie chirped. "Have a seat at the table. I just finished dinner."

Nero perked up a little at the word "dinner". Kyrie wasn't a five star chef, but she could prepare a decent meal. However, after surviving on fast-food and whatever cheap junk he could find at the grocer's, anything she scooped out on a plate and placed in front of him was going to taste like the finest French cuisine. If nothing else, he was at least excited about eating a home-cooked meal. He almost wanted to both cry and guffaw at how pathetic that was, but the warm smell of roasted chicken drew him to the dining table. He ignored how two places had been set at the table despite that he had never announced an official date of his arrival to Kyrie.

"That is one amazing bird," Nero marveled, mouth watering as he leered at the chicken in the center of the table.

"Is it?" responded Kyrie, tittering quietly. "I didn't make it. I just bought it before I left work."

Kyrie worked at the local deli preparing sandwiches. It was a job Nero would never be able to keep because his ass would be fired probably the fifth time his boss caught him shoving food into his mouth that was supposed to go to the people who paid for it, not the workers using it. Nero forced himself to slowly spoon heaping portions of food onto his plate to avoid making a huge mess. The urge to stuff his face was overwhelming, but Nero restrained himself throughout the entire meal. Good thing, too, because he couldn't finish half of what he had scooped out onto his plate. He would have made himself sick if he just gobbled it all down.

After dinner, they moved to the den to watch a movie. "Watch" was a very loose term because they mostly just stared blankly at the television while conversing, glancing at one another occasionally.

"So what's in the box?" asked Kyrie following a pregnant pause. She gestured with a nod of her head toward the long box sitting beside Nero's chair. Nero was frozen for a split-second before he realized what she was talking about.

"Oh," he blurted, and his thoughts went to the day he had picked the package up from her doorstep while she was at work. He had been a tad confused when he opened it. It was a neon sign that read "Devil May Cry 2". It was only after reading the included letter that Nero remembered he had written about his shop in a reply letter to Dante many months prior.

_Every place needs a sign so people will know where to go. I better see this hanging on your shop when I show up for a visit.  
—Dante_

Nero smiled when he read the letter the first time, and the corners of his lips still twitched when he recalled what it had said. It was a sad smile, however, for Nero had received the gift merely a week before he planned to close his shop. He wrote a letter in return and shipped it out the next day.

_Dante,_

_Thank you for the sign. I really appreciate it, but I'm afraid I have to close my shop. I'll send the package back as soon as I can so you can return it. I hope that doesn't piss you off or anything._

_—Nero  
P.S. I was having trouble naming the place anyway, but kudos for creativity_.

Nero half expected his little sarcastic comment at the end to miff Dante enough that he wouldn't write back. After all, they didn't know each other well. So far, Nero hadn't received a reply, so maybe it had.

"It was just a gift from someone," Nero finally replied. "For my shop. I gotta send it back soon."

"Oh!" Kyrie exclaimed, actually startling Nero. "That reminds me."

Nero watched as Kyrie jumped up and hurried for the kitchen. She returned with a white envelope in her hand.

"This came a few days ago. I'm so sorry—I forgot to give it to you."

Nero took the envelope when she held it out for him. "That's okay." Checking the return address, Nero found that it had come from just who he thought. He sliced it open with a blue claw and eagerly extracted its contents. He unfolded the enclosed letter and his eyes became glued to the page as he carefully scanned every word.

_You know there's always work for you here, kid._

Dante had wasted a whole page just to say that? Nero was a tad confused until the odd texture of the reverse side of the letter coaxed him to flip it over. Pinched between his fingertips on the opposite side was a ten dollar bill, and Nero found words in the middle of the page.

_Ten bucks buys a ticket over._

Nero couldn't grin wider at that moment. Luckily, half his face was hidden behind the letter, or Kyrie would have been asking questions. In a way, he was tempted to refuse help in sake of his pride. However, such an opportunity was like a sign from God. He would have been an idiot to refuse.

_Bastard thinks I don't have ten bucks to buy a ticket for the ferry,_ Nero grumbled inwardly. _I'll just have to float over there and show him where he can put his ten bucks._

"What does it say?" asked Kyrie curiously.

"Eh, just a letter from a friend," Nero replied.

_I know where I'm going tomorrow._

* * *

**A/N: **I'm sorry it took forever for me to put this on FFN. It's been on dA for awhile. I seriously thought I had already put this up. Sorry. ^^;


	10. Theme Eleven: Inspiration

**Theme:** Inspiration

**Characters:** Dante, Nero

**Genre(s):** Hurt/Comfort

**Warnings:** Character Death

* * *

Dante sighed as his thumping footfalls came to a slow halt. The devil hunter leaned against the stone archway leading from the church's courtyard into a small atrium, crossing his arms over his chest. His head lolled slightly as he watched his younger partner kneeling over a gravestone near the opposite wall. The poor kid looked as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He wasn't even trying to hold it up, simply resigning to be crushed beneath it. Dante felt guilty to admit that he was slightly annoyed, not by Nero, but by being forced to again deal with the death of a loved one that wasn't even his own. He had only known Kyrie in the sense that he could match her name to her face. She had meant nothing at all to him. However, he understood Nero's pain. It was a pain he himself had suffered too many times before.

"It's gettin' kinda late, kid," called Dante softly. "We should get going soon."

Discovering Kyrie's death had been a bit of an accident. A random citizen in Fortuna had contacted the two devil hunters about some leftover demons roaming around the outskirts of town. She informed that a few people had already gotten hurt, and she feared that the creatures would return to the town to wreak more havoc. The prospect of exploring the island and hunting for any demons remaining had excited both Nero and Dante, so they accepted the job. Nero had happily declared that he could visit Kyrie while he was there and that she would let them stay over for a few days so that they could scope the entire island. However, upon arriving at Kyrie's empty house, a "for sale" sign in the window, a neighbor had the courtesy to deliver the bad news. At first, Nero had been too shocked to feel anything. The color fled from his face, and Dante had feared the younger man would faint. It wasn't until Dante coaxed the location of her grave out of him and gently escorted him there that Nero broke down. It was as if he had needed to see evidence before he could accept the truth. Kyrie's gravestone had been enough.

As a courtesy to Nero, Dante had taken it upon himself to finish the job alone, patting Nero on the shoulder before leaving him to his grieving. Of course, instead of covering the whole island, he simply opted to take out the demons lurking closest to the small castle town. However, it had still taken him over an hour to circle the entire perimeter and it appeared Nero hadn't moved an inch since he left.

Dante allowed several more silent minutes to pass, but Nero never responded. Impatience got the better of him, and Dante slowly approached the younger man, placing a hand on his shoulder. He lightly squeezed a few times before simply leaving his hand there as if it were some sort of security blanket. He hoped, at least, that it would offer some consolation to Nero.

"Look, kid," he said softly, "you're gonna lose people in life. The best thing you can do is just try to move on. Don't forget them completely, but go on with your life."

It felt incredibly awkward to offer such deep, heartfelt advice, especially for someone like Dante, who was rarely emotionally open about anything. However, he knew something had to be said, and who better to say it than the man who had lost practically everyone close to him? The kid had lost his adopted parents, his brother only a year ago, and, now, his sister, too, but that didn't mean he should let it eat away at him. Grieving was enough; dwelling on things day after day never solved anything. Dante had learned that lesson years ago.

"It gets a little better every day... If they cared anything about you, that's what they'd want."

Eventually, Nero nodded and wiped his eyes, slowly pushing himself to his feet. His legs were numb from kneeling for so long and standing was painful. The young devil dusted thin blades of grass and dirt off the front of his pants. He knew they would be stained, but he didn't particularly care. In fact, he didn't really care about anything. Kyrie and Credo were on his mind, and he could think of nothing else. Not that he wanted to, anyway. He wanted to take Dante's advice, but he wasn't quite finished with grieving. Tears stung his eyes every few seconds, but he managed to suppress them, afraid to cry in front of Dante. Just in case a tear slipped out, however, Nero followed behind Dante rather than by his side, hoping the halfbreed wouldn't turn around at the wrong moment.

When the two hunters finally made it to the port and back onto the ferry, Nero sat an unusual distance from the older man. He felt that if he sat too close, he would be tempted to cry into Dante's shoulder or something else as pathetic. Dante respected his distance, however, and kept his eyes off of Nero out of sympathy. Nero was thankful for that because it gave him the opportunity to study the older hunter as he had so urgently needed to after the man's advising in the cemetery.

From the way he spoke, Nero could tell that Dante hadn't simply pulled some heartfelt words out of his ass. He had heard in nonspecific terms that Dante had lost several people he loved. He was experiencing a pain that Dante had dealt with many times before. And, yet, though Nero felt that his world was slowly screeching to a halt, Dante went about life as if nothing had ever happened. Of course, Nero knew he bore scars somewhere deep inside, but his life wasn't over because of them. The younger man had to wonder if it was simply the inner strength of his older partner or something learned through experience. He supposed it was the latter, but the former certainly wouldn't have surprised him. As much as it frustrated him, Nero would admit that he aspired to be like Dante—stoic and resolved. He wanted to live life without crumbling under every bad thing fate threw at him.

* * *

An hour or so later found the hunters back home. The sun had already set and brought an end to a particularly uneventful day. As Nero slipped his boots off at the door, Dante was removing his coat and holsters. Eventually, he threw his vest off, too, sighing in relief at the cool air. Nero stared silently at him for a few moments, debating on doing what he suddenly felt the stupid urge to do. In the end, he decided to just go for it, albeit in a particularly awkward but quick fashion.

As soon as Dante turned around, Nero's arms were wrapped loosely around his neck. The older hunter stiffened, holding his arms away from the younger man in shock as his brain tried to process what was happening. There was a nervous feeling in Nero's gut, but he managed to croak out a few words.

"Thanks, Dante," he mumbled in the hunter's ear.

"No problem, kid," replied Dante as he hugged the younger devil in return, over the initial shock of having Nero's body slam into his own. The hunter patted him on the back, waiting for Nero to detach himself, though it seemed that would take awhile as Dante felt him begin to shake and heard a little sniffle in his ear.

* * *

**A/N:** It was so difficult to get past this theme! D: But I finally did it. However, I'm not really happy with how I wrote it. I like the idea, but the wording and pacing is just awkward. My brain wouldn't cooperate. :( But please give me your opinions. Hope you enjoyed it.


	11. Theme Twelve: Dead Wrong

**Theme:** Dead Wrong

**Character(s):** Credo, Sanctus (Slight Nero, Dante and Trish)

**Genre(s):** Tragedy

**Warnings:** Character Death, Gore

* * *

Credo dug his fingertips into Sanctus' bony arm, struggling desperately to keep the crazy old man from impaling him further. The pain was excruciating, and imagining his entrails sliding along the blade like raw meat on a slicer effectively made it worse. Blood pooled in his throat, and he was forced to cough it up or drown. Sanguine, hot and nauseatingly sweet, made him retch as it dribbled from between his grit teeth. He spat it out in a red cloud quickly fading. Thin rivulets dripped down his chin, matting the hair of his beard and soiling the perfectly pristine white of his uniform. He could feel the horror in Nero's eyes as if the young knight's pupils projected the strong emotion onto him, but he only felt so because Nero's emotion mimicked his own.

A part of him was shocked that Sanctus would betray him. Credo had always loyally served The Order and His Holiness' wishes. Foolishly, he had assumed that loyalty was mutual. However, Sanctus was selfish and greedy; everything the old priest had done, all the promises he made were no more than beautiful lies to hide that he only wanted to help himself. Unfortunately, Credo had learned this far too late. It took an event so severe as his sister being utilized to bait Nero in for him to realize it. When Sanctus ordered that Nero be "apprehended"—which was a sterile, careless sugarcoating of "murdered"—Credo had hesitated, but, in the end, he agreed to betray his adopted brother for the greater good. After all, Nero was a heretic and a demon. What place did he have in Sanctus' grand vision of an angelic utopia?

Oh, how blind he had been! Nero had been right all along about the corruption of the church and The Order of Holy Knights, and Credo had dared to attempt to murder his beloved sibling. He had let himself be convinced that Nero was a demon that needed to be exterminated when, in truth, he himself had become the demon. How pitiful and laughably pathetic it was to believe that he had ascended to the level of an angel. Even Nero with his brash, foul mouth and reckless attitude was more deserving of the title of angel than himself or anyone else in The Order. What a grand delusion that Sanctus had created!

Credo's amber eyes rolled over to Nero gasping and scrabbling futilely to free himself from the giant clutches of the Savior. It was an enormous, animated statue sculpted in the supposed visage of Sparda, the demon who had heroically sacrificed his own power and betrayed his brethren to save mankind ages ago. To Fortuna's church, he was an angel, but his power could never be used for good in the diabolical hands of Sanctus. How ironic it was that the statue of a supposed angel crushed his innocent brother in its clutches. Credo knew that Sanctus planned to absorb Nero, a distant descendant of Sparda, into the Savior to unleash its true power. As he stared into the distressed and pained and furious blue eyes of his brother, Credo felt the strangest mixture of emotions. Worse than the pain in his gut was his guilt and the bitter sting of regret in his chest.

However, above all, he felt fear and uncertainty, not knowing if his brother would escape or die because of his own stupid mistake. Credo knew he hadn't much time left; if Nero did survive, he wouldn't be alive to witness it. How, then, could he ensure the safety of his brother and sister? For, if Nero were to die, Kyrie certainly would, too, without Nero's protection. If he had only realized the truth of Sanctus' intentions sooner, he could have prevented so many terrible happenings.

"You have betrayed us... Why?" asked Sanctus, voice robotic and void of emotion. Credo snarled as he turned his eyes back to the priest. Somehow, God found it in his graces to give him the strength to say what he wanted. The former captain of the Holy Knights mustered all the power left within him and expelled it at Sanctus, the man he had once admired, in a weak upheaval of utter hatred.

"I served the dream of a world you spoke of," he rasped weakly, "the Savior you preached of..."

The man had to pause to take deep, labored breaths. He must have looked pathetic to Sanctus, who, at that moment, was clothed in immense power the likes of which the world had rarely seen. However, Credo managed to harden himself and force his remaining words through painfully gritted teeth.

"But you used my sister, Kyrie, who has nothing to do with this... and that is beyond forgiveness."

Sanctus took sick satisfaction in thrusting the katana, Yamato, to the hilt in his body. He watched Credo suffer with a deranged lust in his eyes before mocking the captain one last time.

"Love...? For a sibling?" he questioned as if the notion was impossible to believe. "How foolish..."

Credo grimaced when the blade was so suddenly jerked free from his abdomen. Too weak to stop himself, the captain stumbled backwards and slipped from the massive cranium of the statue. He watched in macabre fascination as his own blood became airborne when the wind against him helped the sanguine droplets take flight. His mind steeled itself against the agonized scream of Nero, whose demonic claws reached hopelessly for him as he fell. It was only when the captain's eyes met those of Nero barely peeking over the edge of the Savior's fist that tears stung his eyes. He forced them to an end as the few that leaked out floated into the air above him; he would die with what little dignity he had left.

When a strong body slammed into him, Credo winced, thinking he had collided with the rigid marble of the statue. Instead, he was scooped into the arms of an unknown stranger and brought to safety on a nearby platform. It was only when Credo's clenched eyes finally opened that he realized, strangely, the halfbreed responsible for the whole mess had mercifully saved him despite trying to kill him earlier. Dante was mysterious; Credo seldom knew very much about the man, but his gut urged him to believe that Dante was fighting the good fight.

Dante gently placed Credo off to the side before turning back around to join his partner in listening to Sanctus' maniacal harping about how successful his plans were. Credo was deaf to the world around him. He was sick of listening to Sanctus. For the most part, he was forcefully numbing himself to the immense regret rotting him from the inside. He wanted to die without feeling such an abhorrent emotion, though he knew he didn't deserve such mercy. However, he seized the false comfort selfishly. He was already going to Hell anyway—that much he knew. What was one last sin before he faced eternal punishment?

However, Nero's battle cry forced his attention back to his adopted brother. He had looked in time to behold an incredible feat. An enormous phantom projection of Nero's demonic arm grabbed Sanctus and attempted to crush his body against the statue. However, the priest freed himself at the last moment and leapt to the hand grasping the young knight in its clutches. Brandishing Yamato, Sanctus stabbed Nero's glowing, blue hand straight through. Credo had previously thought the appendage invincible, yet Nero's strength began to fade as Sanctus, laughing maniacally, sunk into the Savior's hand and disappeared. Nero began to sink into the hand of the statue, the blue glow of his demonic hand snuffed out like simple candle fire. Then, the statue was floating away, off to wreak certain havoc on the world. It was agonizing to watch, and Credo averted his eyes like a coward. It was for the best, however. He didn't deserve to feel anything for Nero—not worry, not love, not pain. And, yet, those were among the emotions welling inside him at that moment.

In some final hopeless attempt to survive, the captain crawled backward, seeking the support of a collapsed pillar laying near the back end of the platform. He coughed and wheezed, flecking his lips with blood, as he attempted to push himself to his feet. It was almost inconceivable that he was dying. Suddenly, Credo refused to accept it, though, deep down, he still knew his efforts were futile, pathetic. Still, he pushed himself toward the pillar until it met his back. Then, he suffered another violent fit of coughing. As he stained the stone floor with his blood, Dante approached him, asking a question casually as if he wasn't speaking to a man on the verge of death.

"Hey," he exclaimed, "where's that thing goin'? It's not complete yet is it?"

Credo hesitated to speak; he wasn't sure if he could without exhausting himself completely. His mind took longer than usual to think, but, when the words finally came to him, Credo let them flow forth, hoping he wouldn't die in the middle of his speech.

"It is in his heart to save the world from chaos," Credo panted. His ears were disbelieving, but he knew, deep inside, that his words were true. No matter how despicable Sanctus had become, his ultimate goal was to save humanity from what he deemed its downfall. All he required was that he claim all the glory and power in the end. He wanted to be Sparda reincarnated. However, his idea of a utopia was a place where all evil and sin—and, of course, sinners—were exterminated. He didn't care for the good of all men but only the good of "good" men.

"He will begin by driving it out," continued the captain.

"Now he has what he needed... Yamato," replied the blond woman he had believed to be a member of The Order, Gloria. In reality, she had been Dante's partner all along, infiltrating The Order's headquarters to collect information for the son of Sparda.

"Sparda used it to seal the Hell Gate from the demon world," Credo responded, "the sword is the key to opening the Hell Gate. The _real_ Hell Gate... that lies dormant beneath this city."

It was well-known that an enormous Hell Gate stood in Fortuna just behind the church. It wasn't as if anyone had ever tried to hide it. In fact, it was a bit of a tourist attraction. However, it was only an extension of the real Hell Gate hidden beneath the city in the deepest bowels of the church.

"The sword that separates the human world from the demon world," mused Dante. Credo wasn't sure what exactly he was thinking, but he didn't have time to ponder it. With every second, he could feel his life fading, his body becoming colder. There were things he needed to say before he died.

"I believe you, the son of the Dark Knight Sparda, are the only one who can stop the Savior now... Dante..."

Somehow, Credo had managed to crouch, and he slowly pushed himself to his feet, though he wasn't sure why. He was operating mechanically, his body out of touch with his brain. He leaned against the fallen pillar, grunting in pain before he forced himself to speak his final words.

"Please... honor one last request," he begged. If he could have fell to his knees to beg without dying, he would have if only to convince Dante to honor his final wish. Perhaps, he looked pitiful enough that the halfbreed would have sympathy for him.

"Save them," he breathed as he stepped forward, bracing himself with a gloved hand on Dante's sturdy shoulder. "Kyrie... and... Nero..."

With what he had needed to say said, Credo felt the life drain from his veins. His eyes stared miles into the distance, but they could no longer see anything other than darkness. He could faintly hear his own words as if they were whispered to him from the opposite end of a tunnel. Death coaxed him into eternal slumber, and its comforting embrace lulled him into a sleep so deep he could never again be reached.


	12. Theme Thirteen: Running Away

**Theme:** Running Away

**Character(s):** Nero, Slight Kyrie, Dante

**Genre(s):** I really don't know...

**Warnings:** Very Mild Nero/Kyrie (lol That's a warning...), Language, Suggestive Themes

* * *

As Nero hastily rummaged through the fridge to scrounge together some semblance of breakfast, he felt the most shameful and strange stab of anxiety in his gut. Every morning, he woke up feeling that way. He wasn't sure when it started, but, for about a month, the young hunter had been suffering through that nervousness and dread. Unfortunately, he was beginning to see the source of that anxiety—though he didn't want to admit it—and work was his only respite.

"Good morning, Nero!"

Nero's entire body stiffened like a board when a smaller form collided with his back. Kyrie's slender fingers ghosted over his bare clavicle, and her soft breaths wafted over his nape. He started to break into a cold sweat, his mouth going dry, when he realized he could feel her breasts pressed against him, and her hips grazed him a few times. He swallowed loudly around what felt like a lump of cotton lodged in his throat.

"Uh," he croaked, "morning, Kyrie."

Nero noticed how she grew silent at his unenthusiastic greeting, and he could feel her eyes on him, studying him. He worried he had hurt her feelings, but, despite how fragile she seemed at times, Kyrie was actually quite difficult to harm, at least, with words.

"Is something wrong?" she asked. The sincere concern in her voice made Nero's heart ache with guilt. It wasn't fair at all to make her worry, and he knew she had been. However, he simply couldn't find the words to explain his issue. So, instead, he lied, which only made his guilt worse.

"I'm fine," he replied, trying to sound believable. "I just don't feel too hot this morning."

"Are you alright?" Kyrie asked, releasing her headlock. Nero had intended to throw together a ham and cheese sandwich, but he decided quickly that he would rather pick something up on his way instead. As he hurried into the den to slip his boots on, Kyrie followed behind, waiting impatiently for his answer. Eventually, she had to speak again.

"Nero?" The worry was clear in her voice, and it was perfectly understandable. Nero knew he was acting weird, but he had no idea what to do about it, and he hated himself for that.

"I'm just tired," he responded, mustering a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I'll feel fine after I eat something."

"O-okay, but aren't you going to—"

"I'll just pick something up on my way. Bye, Kyrie!"

Nero spat the words at her before hurrying out the door before she even had a chance to respond. He knew he would have to apologize for his rudeness later, if he ever figured the whole situation out. Until then, he would continue feigning ignorance.

* * *

"'Bout time you got here, kid. Didn't think you'd show up."

Nero was still lapping grease off his fingers when he slowed to a halt in the midst of the vast battlefield where he had once fought Bael. Though it still snowed in the mountains, Lumina Peak had warmed up considerably after the Hell Gate was destroyed. The cold was no longer unbearable. However, demons still lingered here and there. Nero was slowly working toward picking them all off until Fortuna was demon free. Occasionally, Dante tagged along if Nero was kind enough to call and invite him. Nero claimed he only ever invited Dante because the halfbreed taught him new techniques with Yamato, but it was his deep, dark secret that he actually kind of enjoyed the loudmouthed hunter's company.

"Oh, shut it," Nero growled. "When are you ever on time?"

Dante smirked, obviously satisfied with Nero's reaction. "Somebody's grouchy today," he mused. Dante took pleasure in picking at Nero. He loved pissing the younger hunter off. Nero normally didn't mind it too much; it felt good to blow up sometimes, and who better to suffer the brunt of his rage than Dante? However, the halfbreed also had a habit of discovering what was eating him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Nero knew he probably should have thought more about inviting Dante over. He could only hope that the devil hunter wouldn't figure out what was wrong with him or, at the very least, would show some mercy. There was a microscopic chance of either of those things happening.

"I wouldn't be so damn grouchy if you didn't act like such a smug bastard," Nero retorted. Ordinary people would probably have been insulted, but Dante was far from ordinary. He took insults like compliments.

"I wouldn't be such a smug bastard if you didn't give me a reason to be," Dante replied mockingly. Nero snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right."

Nero summoned Yamato from within him, and the blade conjured in his hand. Wrapping his bare hand around the cold hilt of the blade felt exhilarating, refreshing. He almost forgot entirely about his problems. Perhaps, actually using the blade would alleviate his mind completely.

"Well, are we gonna do what we came here for?"

Dante jerked his head to the side. "I dunno, kid. Are we?"

Nero curled his lip at the man. "You suggesting I'm not up to it?"

Dante smirked humorously. "You're puttin' words in my mouth, kid. I never said any such thing."

Nero almost flushed pink as he realized the vague double entendre he had inadvertently incorporated into his words. His cheeks heated up slightly, but he scratched at his nose to hide it. He would have succeeded, too, if it wasn't for that meddling asshole. He had to point out everything. If only Nero could embarrass Dante somehow. _That'll never happen..._

"Am I missing something here?" asked Dante quizzically, his lips half smirking and half grinning.

"No," Nero mumbled, glaring at the older man from the corners of his eyes as he continued rubbing his nose. He knew he was already doomed; he was just waiting for Dante to figure it out.

"Your girlfriend not putting out or something?"

"W-what?" Nero squawked, his voice breaking an embarrassing pitch. "You're a pervy old man." Nero's reaction was definitely more a product of his own embarrassment than disgust. The way his blush intensified confirmed that.

"Well? Is that the problem?" prodded Dante, ignoring Nero's insult. He was used to it.

"No! She wants it just fine!" Nero answered too quickly.

"So you're the one who's not putting out?"

"Dante!"

Nero slapped a palm over his face, sighing into the clammy skin. Even as he acted exasperated with Dante, he didn't always get himself into those situations accidentally. While discussing his personal life with the halfbreed was uncomfortable, sometimes, Dante actually had some useful advice. Concerning that particular topic, Nero wasn't sure exactly what Dante would say, however. Probably something stupid and wildly inaccurate, but he could try anyway.

"Well?" crooned Dante, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping a boot on the stone floor. "Is that it?"

Nero sighed deeply, slowly, before forcing himself to mutter, "Yes..."

Dante blew a sputtering raspberry in lieu of laughter as if his lips were a bursting dam meant to suppress his guffaws. A grin twitched on his lips, and, while he seemed to be trying to control himself for Nero's sake, the young hunter wasn't so stupid as to fail to notice what a spectacle the older man made out of it. Nero scowled at him until Dante was finally able to regain his composure.

"Sorry, sorry," he repeated, waving a hand as if to fan away his laughter. "So you're the one who doesn't wanna do it..."

"Yes, Dante, that's what I _just_ said," Nero grumbled, glaring at the older hunter.

"Can I ask why?"

Nero sighed yet again, though it was out of nervousness rather than exasperation. That was the point where their conversation could become truly awkward. Nero wasn't sure he wanted to discuss the truth with Dante. When it came to sex, they were polar opposites, and Nero wasn't dubious at all that Dante would tease him if he told the halfbreed what was bothering him. He was already ashamed; he didn't need Dante making it worse. However, there wasn't another living being on the planet that would know better about it than Dante.

Finally, Nero took a deep breath and confessed. "I'm afraid I'll screw it up."

"Not confident in your ability to please, huh?" Strangely, Dante's voice was void of humor. For once, he actually sounded serious. Nero wasn't sure he preferred that over Dante's usual frivolity. It gave their conversation an uncomfortable weight.

"No, I can do just fine in bed," replied Nero. He cringed at how uncertain he sounded.

"Kid, I've been with enough virgins to know you're lying."

Nero rubbed at his nose, turning a rosy pink. Dante grinned at him, and Nero suddenly wasn't certain how he wanted Dante to act. He found it difficult to be comfortable with the man, no matter what he said or did.

"It's not that that's bothering me anyway," he replied. Dante said nothing, waiting for Nero to respond. After a moment of tense, awkward silence, he did. "I'm afraid I'll hurt her."

"I seriously doubt you're _that_ big," Dante replied. He was obviously trying to irritate Nero, perhaps, to lift the mood. Somehow, Nero found it within himself to ignore Dante's crack at his dick size.

"I mean, when we've fooled around before, I got kinda rough with her, and she's always been too nervous to go further. But now she wants to take the next step and I can't..."

"Why not?" Dante asked with a shrug.

"Seriously?" Nero replied, staring disbelievingly at the older hunter. "You said yourself that you don't get involved with relationships because your demon 'scares off all the ladies'. If I lost control and hurt her, how would she fight back? And I barely know shit about living with a freaking demon inside of me. What if I lose myself and kill her or something? Am I supposed to just give up on ever having a relationship just because one of my parents decided to fuck with a demon?"

"Calm down, kid," Dante laughed. "You're jumping to conclusions."

"Well, it's hard not to. If you can't control yourself, how can I possibly hope to?"

"That's because I don't try hard enough, kid. It's a lot easier to control yourself if you never have the same girl in bed twice. Keeps my demon thoroughly entertained."

"Yeah, but I don't wanna whore around with a bunch of different women. I'm only interested in Kyrie. Besides, everyone's afraid of me anyway..."

"I didn't say you had to. It just means you're gonna have to try harder."

"Try _what_ harder?"

"Sex," Dante laughed. "Just don't lose control of yourself."

"But how do I do that?" Nero asked, quirking a brow.

"Focus on her and not yourself," responded the hunter simply. "It'll be easy at first, but, then, your devil's gonna start getting bored. It'll want more, but you'll have to force yourself to ignore everything and just focus on pleasing your girl."

"That doesn't sound very fun," Nero mumbled.

"It's not horrible, but it's nothing like pornos make it out to be either. At least, not until you learn to control yourself. If you really want that, I don't think you'll have that hard of a time with it."

"You think?" Nero asked uncertainly. The fear of hurting Kyrie was still present, but the way Dante described everything made it seem far from impossible.

"Yep," replied Dante flatly. "Now are we gonna do what we came here for?"

"Oh, right," Nero replied, blushing. He had forgotten about Yamato entirely despite that the blade was still gripped in his hand. Dante motioned for him to toss the katana over, and Nero obeyed, watching intently as the devil hunter began to demonstrate an exciting new move he had never seen before, instructing all the way.


	13. Theme Fourteen: Judgment

**Theme:** Judgment

**Character(s):** Dante, Agnus

**Genre(s):** Tragedy (kind of?)

**Warnings:** Character Death

* * *

The moment the Son of Sparda's elegant finger squeezed the trigger of a gleaming, ivory pistol, time ceased completely. Agnus stared square through the charred hole in the page he held before his face at the barrel of the gun, ready to expel a bullet into his brain. The Man in Red's expression was cold and indifferent toward the scientist's impending demise. In his final moment, Agnus felt like a crushed insect lodged in the treads of the devil hunter's boot.

Strangely, he seldom felt the horror or regret commonly associated with such a fate. Instead, Agnus felt the icy teeth of immense sorrow clasp around his heart and the burn of shame in his veins. His life's work all lost in a minute's time and with no remnants to show for it. Wasn't it the dream of every scientist to leave an innovation behind for the better of humanity? At the very least, that had been his dream. He wanted to be remembered as a key part in saving mankind from itself. He had steadily built a ladder toward achieving that dream, but, now, at the time of his death, it laid shattered in fragile shards around him. Dante stood upon them, crushing them into a fine powder until they were nothing more than dust in the wind.

Suspended in the air around him were the yellowed and stained pages that contained every detail of his research. Agnus' fingers itched to snatch them out of the air and back into the protection of his arms. Even with the hole Dante's bullet had torn through them, the scientist knew he could salvage the information. If only he had the time, he could fill in the missing words from his memory and scrawl them into clean, fresh notes. But that wasn't going to happen. Just as he was about to be, his notes had been shot, and they, too, would die with him. And as Dante left the cathedral, they would be crushed and crumpled beneath his feet like nothing more than garbage littered on the marble floor. Like trash, they would be swept up and forgotten.

Why had such a cruel twist of fate befallen him? Had he not always served the wishes of God? He shared the goal of The Order to eliminate sin, to purify the world. He was a mere soldier in the battle against evil. Was that not what God wanted of his people? Sanctus always preached that it was the duty of The Order to save the world from plunging into chaos. For, in a world fraught with despicable, malignant and contemptible beings by nature, they were the enlightened ones that saw beyond themselves to God's grand plan. Sparda had spared mankind for _their_ purpose alone. How ironic was it, then, that the angel's son would be the very one to guarantee the world's descent into darkness?

As the roar of gunfire echoed throughout the cathedral, Agnus was sick with abhorrence. It was the final emotion he felt before hot lead tore through his eye socket and into his brain. The force sent him flying backward until he collided with a misplaced pew and fell upon it as if he had just sat down for a rest and dozed off. He felt the roughness of a slip of paper hovering gently down to lovingly shield his face from the world. He would have been content to perish with the final scent of paper and ink ingrained in his memory, but Fate, the cruel mistress, kept him alive long enough to hear the Son of Sparda's dramatic finale.

"And the rest is silence..."


	14. Theme Fifteen: Seeking Solace

****_The rating of this conglomerate has been raised to M due to content in the latest chapters that I feel is inappropriate for minors. Each chapter includes a warnings section at the beginning, so one can still pick and choose what he/she reads. Very few one-shots contain any sexual/suggestive themes, and even the ones that do aren't graphic. I gave this conglomerate the M rating solely to serve as an indicator that one could stumble upon inappropriate content. Remember to always check the warnings and read at your own discretion. I am not responsible for those who stumble upon content they did not wish to see._

* * *

**Theme:**Seeking Solace

**Character(s):** Nero, Dante

**Genre(s):** Angst, Hurt/Comfort

**Warnings:** Homosexual Pairing, Sexual Themes

* * *

A groan thrust Nero back into consciousness, but it was only after he fully awakened that the young devil realized the sound had come from his own mouth. Rubbing his bleary eyes, Nero cringed and hissed when he scratched himself with a glowing claw. However, he quickly found something else to grimace at when his slight shifting caused him to notice the stickiness nearly cementing him to Dante. Between their naked bodies was a mixture of sweat and dried semen. Both gave the room a stale, sweetly pungent odor. Nero could feel the filth clinging to his skin, and he suddenly felt that he would just die if he didn't run and vault into the shower.

He wasn't ready to move, however. The thought of being separated from Dante made nervous butterflies flutter in his stomach and his skin go cold. As needy and pathetic as it made him feel, Nero wanted to savor every second of such intimate closeness with Dante. He was fearful that the older hunter would suddenly realize he didn't need Nero, would get rid of him. The younger man was so accustomed to losing everything that gave him true joy in life that trying to comprehend why Dante hadn't forsaken him yet made his head ache. He was just waiting for the apparently inevitable end of their relationship, which was so stupid and irrational. He had no reason to believe anything would go wrong, and, yet, he yearned to cling to Dante as if the man was dangling precariously over the edge of a cliff.

Sighing in an attempt to calm himself, Nero closed his eyes and rested his cheek on Dante's chest, listening to his steady heartbeats. The were slow and rhythmic in his slumber. Oddly enough, the sound made Nero feel a tad sleepy. Like music, Dante's pulse often dictated the tempo of Nero's life. If in anger or excitement Dante's heart sped up, so would Nero's. Sometimes, he wasn't even sure his emotions were his own. Many times, they were Dante's. It was as if both their blood flowed through conjoined veins to the synchronized beating of both their hearts. It was a strange feeling to be so attuned to someone else, but Nero liked it. It made him feel less alone as if, out of everywhere else in the world, where he belonged was with Dante.

Nero shook those thoughts from his mind before the warm fuzz growing inside him clogged his arteries. Instead, he shifted his head to rest his chin on Dante's broad chest, watching curiously the older hunter's sleeping face. The sight suddenly robbed him of the ability to breathe, mostly because he feared that his breaths on Dante's face would wake the halfbreed. His arm that was hooked beneath Dante's back and his leg awkwardly twisted between those of the older hunter were numb, but Nero couldn't force himself to move. Never before had he seen Dante appear so peaceful, vulnerable. He hadn't before had the courage to gaze upon Dante's sleeping face for fear the man would wake up and question him. However, Dante didn't seem to be stirring at all, so Nero paused so as not to lose the moment.

Cautiously, Nero reached up with his Devil Bringer to caress the man's lips, careful not to stab him with a sharp talon. He felt the plumpness of Dante's bottom lip as he slid his hand down to cup the devil hunter's chin, petting his jaw with his thumb. Nero had felt the stubble there many times and in multiple locations on his body, but he never tired of marveling at the prickly sensation tickling his fingertips.

Slowly, Nero maneuvered his body so that he could move his face closer to Dante's until his lips grazed those of the older man. He nibbled at them lightly before poking them with his tongue, contemplating the origin of a lingering sweet taste. Just as Nero had planned, Dante's mouth quirked into a little smirk. One bleary, impossibly blue eye cracked open to peer down at him, and, for a long moment, the two hunters simply stared at one another. When Dante finally spoke, Nero found himself pleasantly surprised by the sleepy gruffness of his voice.

"Wha'da you doin', kid?" he mumbled lowly, struggling to keep his eyes open.

_What _am_ I doing?_ Nero asked himself. Three years ago, he would have never imagined that he and Dante would even be friends, let alone share the same bed. When Nero first met the mysterious "Man in Red", the only thing he wanted to do was leave him lying in a puddle of his own blood. Occasionally, Nero still wanted to rip the man's head off, but they were no longer enemies. They were best friends, comrades and... lovers? Maybe. Nero wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure what "love" really meant, but he did know that he had never been happier in his life. He had never before felt that he belonged, had never before felt so _right_. He didn't know if he loved Dante or not, but the way the loudmouthed devil hunter made him feel was enough of an incentive to stick around and figure it out.

That was, of course, if Dante would let him. The man was so cryptic, so unreadable, that Nero had no idea how Dante felt. He could only hope that he meant as much—or more—to Dante as the older hunter did to him. Nero always pushed the thought from his mind the moment it entered, but, deep down, he knew that if he ever came to know that he was nothing more than a fling to Dante, it would destroy him inside. He would have to leave because the mere sight of the devil hunter would make him sick to his stomach. But where would he go? His relationship with Kyrie had ended on bad terms; he was probably the last person she wanted to show up on her doorstep to beg for a place to stay. He didn't have enough money to his name to survive alone, and Nero knew being just a devil hunter wouldn't be enough for him to live in Capulet. He would probably end up homeless, but the worst part would be knowing that he and Dante were done forever. He could never go back; doing so would only make the pain worse. Nero was so shamefully afraid of suffering that exact scenario, no matter how many times he pretended he was fine or forced himself to believe his fears were just normal paranoia. He desperately needed to hear something, _anything_, that solidified his significance to Dante in his mind.

"Nothin', old man," Nero replied, putting on a playful mask. His smirk mirrored the older man's, but, even then, it must not have been very authentic. Something in Dante's eyes said that he wasn't buying Nero's ruse.

"Something wrong?" he asked, the serious tone to his voice making Nero's chest tighten up.

"No," he breathed shakily.

"Don't lie to me, Nero," Dante demanded. His voice wasn't accusatory or berating. It was concerned, sympathetic and caring, which somehow shocked Nero in pleasant but awkward way. He wasn't sure how to respond.

"I'm fine," he growled. Whereas he hadn't been all that fine a moment ago, something about the urgent worry in Dante's voice reassured him.

For an awkwardly pregnant pause, Dante scrutinized Nero closely, watching for his expression to falter, to reveal any emotions he was hiding. The only emotion Nero was really hiding at that moment was a slight tinge of nervousness that he wasn't certain why he was feeling.

"What are you—a shrink?" Nero asked quizzically. He sounded annoyed, but Dante knew him better than that. It was Nero's own strange brand of humor—pretending to be a grumbling, exasperated little punk.

Dante grinned. "That's what it would take to understand you. You're like a woman."

Nero scowled at that, narrowing his eyes at the older devil. "Well, if I'm a woman now, I guess you're not interested anymore."

Nero attempted to crawl off of Dante and stomp out of the room, but Dante's arms wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, hugging him so hard he couldn't breathed. The younger hunter wheezed as the halfbreed rolled them over to the opposite side of the bed, laying on top of Nero. Surprisingly, it was a more comfortable position than his previous one. Dante's lips instantly sought Nero's, but the younger man put up his hand like a wall between them, leaving Dante to peck the palm of his hand. The halfbreed's eyes shot open in surprise as he pulled back to stare questioningly at Nero.

"Not until we take a shower," he replied with a grimace. Dante chuckled warmly in his chest and stole a kiss anyway. It ended up on Nero's cheek as the younger man snarled and jerked his face to the side at the last second.

"Punk."

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**A/N:** I'm sorry it took me a little while to upload these. I just finished 13 and 14 yesterday, and I finished 15 today. So you're not reading these too much later than the folks over on dA. But if it really bothers you, you could always get an account on dA and watch me. I update and communicate a lot faster there. But, of course, that's not necessary. It would be awesome to see some more visitors from FFN, though. If you drop by my profile, leave me a comment. :) My deviantID is the same as my FFN username but with hyphens instead of spaces. But please review with your opinions and/or tips on these one-shots. It really motivates me to read your comments, and thoughtful critiques help me improve a lot.


	15. Theme Seventeen: Vengeance

**Theme:** Vengeance

**Character(s):** Nero, Sanctus

**Genre(s):** I don't know...

**Warnings:** Nothing, really...

* * *

Nero failed to steady his breathing, exhilarated. He strutted confidently into the final battle that would determine his—and, ultimately, the world's—fate. Raw energy surged through his Devil Bringer, setting his blood aflame. The demonic appendage radiated a vibrant blue, illuminating his features. The nearly white light seemed to reflect the utter resolve within him, and his eyes appeared to cast the same light. His scaly fist clenched and unclenched excitedly before stretching wide to bare needle-sharp talons.

Finally, Nero faced his foe, whose palms falling upon the ground caused the Earth to quake. The statue, which had previously been a tawdry likeness of Sparda, bore the face of Sanctus. In the end, the old coot fused with his own grand creation to form and ungodly monster. Nero couldn't help but snort at the irony. But wasn't that what Sanctus had wanted: to be Sparda, savior of humankind? Why, then, was he so enraged? Perhaps, he had only wanted to play the part of the "humble" servant, pretending to relish in his god's glory when he was the very zealot who orchestrated it all. Sanctus knew that he would garner more attention if he was the poor, unrecognized underdog rather than the hero himself.

Unfazed by Sanctus' towering form, Nero glared darkly up at him, seldom even blinking. After all the chaos that Sanctus had unleashed upon innocent Fortuna, Nero could see him as nothing more than a contemptible insect to be crushed underfoot. For the good of humanity, he needed to be crushed, annihilated from existence. That was at least a fraction of why Nero sought to do the crushing. However, the one thought motivating him above all was Kyrie. Sanctus had used her like an invaluable trinket rather than a living, breathing human being. To him, she was only the worm impaled on the hook to be dangled in front of Nero, lure him in. He had reduced her to little more than an asset, and, for that, Sanctus would pay the ultimate price.

When a massive fist of stone swiped toward him, Nero raised his Devil Bringer to meet the attack. He would admit to being mildly surprised at how his demonic arm completely absorbed the impact as if it was nothing more than a light nudge. The statue's jaws parted wide to belt out an angry roar, the gale it produced tossing Nero's hair and coat. The young knight briefly considered making a comment about breath mints, but the air was practically humming with his own power. Witty banter wasn't needed; it would only vile the sanctity of the moment.

After deflecting a few more weak blows courtesy of Sanctus, Nero was ready to put the old man out of his suffering. The phantom projection of his arm appeared in the sky, a massive ghost of his Devil Bringer. Even Nero himself was shocked by the size of it, but he didn't waste time marveling at his own power. Instead, he channeled it into his splayed hand that hugged Sanctus' face like a spider. The sheer brute force required to crush the statue's façade into broken fragments and dust took an insurmountable amount of effort. Nero roared a gravelly battle cry as if the sound would assist him in closing his fist. He began trembling with exertion, the statue swaying side to side as he jerked his arm in an attempt to wrench loose its face. Only two tries and the massive face of the statue dislodged, instantly being crushed in his palm, debris raining to the ground below. Finally, Chaos' reign over Fortuna ended and, with it, Sanctus's poison theocracy.


	16. Theme Eighteen: Sympathy

**Theme:** Sympathy

**Character(s):** Lady, Trish, Dante

**Genre(s):** Drama maybe?

**Warnings:** Language

* * *

Eyes, one blue and the other brown, glanced up at the brick façade of Devil May Cry. The huntress sniffed distastefully at the gaudy neon sign bolted over what would have been a beautiful window. Her boots clicked on the cement as she stepped up onto the sidewalk. Before her gloved hand reached forward to push open the door, it seemed the entire world went totally silent except for that soft, scuffing click. The final sound to echo in the silence was the squealing of the door's hinges before two voices could be heard. One was Dante's unforgettable baritone, lazy and breathy in his feigned disinterest. The other was that of a woman. Lady wrinkled her nose before her eyes even caught sight of whom he was speaking with. Once she did see her, however, Lady nearly cringed.

Suppressing her emotions, Lady sauntered stoically across the room, thankful that her pink tinted glasses shrouded the bitter hatred in her eyes. She halted a few feet from Dante's desk, refusing to venture closer lest she be within close proximity of that blond skank Dante had been spending far too much time around lately. She could feel the demon's eyes on her, and the urge to turn her nose up was overwhelming. Instead, she focused her attention on Dante, who had been smirking at for who knew how long. That quirk of his lips nearly made Lady claw his face off; it infuriated her because she couldn't discern what it meant. Or, perhaps, she didn't want to.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" purred Dante, splaying his arms wide as if to project the grandeur of his establishment. He was joking, of course; Dante rarely took anything seriously. However, Lady couldn't even find it in herself to smile even in the slightest. Not that she normally did, but the burning anger in her gut was so intense that it wouldn't have surprised her if it was written upon her face, no matter how indifferent she attempted to appear.

"You know exactly why I'm here, Dante," Lady droned as she folded her arms over her chest, her voice careless and cruel. She thought she saw the halfbreed's eyebrows twitch up in surprise at how cold she sounded.

"Right," Dante sighed despondently as he pushed himself out of his chair. "Since you kept stealin' it outta my desk, I'll have to go get it from upstairs."

"Stealing?" Lady retorted. "It's hardly stealing when you _owe me_ the money."

"Yeah, yeah," Dante sighed, waving her off as he thumped up the stairs. A few seconds after he disappeared into the hallway upstairs, Lady sighed in annoyance and turned her attention to Trish. She stared at the blond for a brief moment before averting her eyes when Trish's silver ones came to focus on her. The blond demon swallowed the bite of pizza she had been chewing before speaking.

"What?" she asked. Her voice was mostly indifferent, but Lady could hear the faintest trace of irritation. She scoffed at the blond's reaction with a sniff. _Surprising she can feel anything at all..._

"Nothing," Lady replied flatly, her voice raising in pitch. The gesture may have seemed nonchalant, but her tone was vicious. Trish narrowed her eyes, her hands going to her hips.

"Look, if you've got a problem with me, I can leave," declared Trish resolutely.

"I'm clearly not the one with the problem," Lady replied.

"What?" Trish spat, obviously offended. Lady felt a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

"A cheap imitation of his mother," she said aloud as if musing to herself. "It's so pitiful... You obviously want him, but he could never want something like _you_."

The room was deathly silent for a long, tense moment. Lady could practically feel the anger rolling off of Trish. Or, more accurately, she could feel it crackling through the air like static electricity. Was it only her imagination, or had the room begun to smell of ozone?

"I don't need your _sympathy_," hissed Trish, pointing a finger at Lady. If she had been a fox at that moment, her fur would have bristled. She craned her neck down slightly in a standoffish manner as if to call attention to the height difference between them. Her brow was tense, and the corners of her pink lips seemed downturned.

"For your information, I come here to _talk_ to him, not pant and drool over his _dick_, unlike you."

Lady felt a sharp stab of anger shoot through her at Trish's little remark. She had the overwhelming urge to shoot Trish. If it wasn't for Dante upstairs, she would have. Instead, she whirled toward the blond, muscles tensing as she was about to get up in the devil's face. Trish spoke before she had the chance, however.

"If you ask me, you're the one with the goddamn problem."

Those were the final words to leave Trish's lips before she stormed out of the building, purposely bumping her shoulder against Lady's hard enough to nearly knock the smaller woman over. The flame of anger inside her became a roaring blaze of rage, but she didn't have time to act on it before the door squealed open. Trish slammed it behind her with enough force to rattle the walls. As if the noise had concerned him, Dante appeared on the gallery a second later. He gave the room below a once-over before running down the stairs.

"Where's Trish?" he asked as he came to face Lady. She glared at him for a moment before her eyes fell to the cash in his hand.

"She left," replied the woman simply, her fingers pinching around the money in his extended hand. She knew Dante's eyes were suspicious, disbelieving, but he said nothing accusatory.

"That's a shame," he sighed. "We were just havin' an interesting discussion." His words seemed purposeful as if meant to correct Lady's thinking that he and Trish were doing something more. Lady said nothing, turning to walk out the door. It wasn't until her fingers wrapped around the door handle that the memory of what she had just done entered her mind, and she felt a stab of guilt in her stomach.


	17. Theme Nineteen: Holding

100 Theme Challenge

**Theme:** Holding

**Universe:** DMC

**Character(s):** Nero, Dante

**Genre(s):** Romance is probably as close as it gets...

**Warnings:** Language, Slight D/N, Homosexual Pairing

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

He was floating, drifting through warm darkness. Its tendrils snaked inside of him and robbed the breath from his lungs. It wasn't violent or uncomfortable; the darkness beckoned him to succumb, but, to what, he seldom knew. He didn't want to know. Instead, he resisted, twitching in the few places that his body would move. He tried to draw in a breath to keep from smothering, but he was paralyzed. The only worrisome part of it all was that his body seemed content to simply give in and lay there for all eternity. And surely enough, after a moment, it ceased all movement and went limp. However, it didn't relax against the resistance of a floor. Instead, he found himself suddenly plummeting into endless darkness, and, when a gasp managed to escape him, he opened his eyes.

Nero's lungs inflated and deflated in rapid cycles as his starved lungs desperately refilled themselves. His eyes darted around the room as if to confirm his location, but he was too dazed to think anything at that moment. Hasty, muffled thumps impinged upon his awareness before, a moment later, familiar eyes were peering into his own.

"You okay, kid?" asked Dante softly as if raising his voice would injure Nero. Confused, the young devil narrowed his eyes at the older man, waiting for his brain to restart and make sense of the whole situation. When Nero failed to respond, Dante repeated his question, enunciating each word slowly. After a silent moment of thought, Nero finally conjured a response.

"I just... had a weird dream," he muttered breathily. "I wasn't breathing."

Dante nodded understandingly. "Those pills'll do that to ya'."

Nero furrowed his brow at the halfbreed. "Pills?"

"Yeah, the pain killers," replied Dante as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, his own brow tensed and he pursed his lips for a split-second. "You remember." It was a statement but an uncertain one.

Nero's face twisted in confusion. "Remember what?"

Dante watched him for a moment, eyes full of disbelief as if he was expecting Nero to say he was only joking. He never did, however, because he wasn't. Nero could remember nothing before he fell asleep. In fact, he couldn't even remember falling asleep. Searching his memory, the younger hunter located fuzzy fragments of whole memories, but they were too hazy to assist him in recalling the full picture. Finally, his eyes shifted back to Dante, and his obliviousness must have been written all over his face, for Dante sighed deeply and carefully set himself on the edge of the couch beside Nero's sprawled body, draping an arm over the younger man's waist.

"You really don't remember anything?" Dante asked, concerned. Even as his voice was fraught with disbelief, it seemed he had been anticipating Nero's memory loss, preparing for it.

"No," Nero breathed, shaking his head from side to side. It was only then that he began to notice how weak and raspy he sounded. Speaking softly seemed more comfortable, and, if he tried forcing himself to speak more loudly, his head felt a little light.

"What happened?" he asked when Dante stayed silent for a long, tense moment.

"You were fighting three Blitz all at the same time. And you were doing... great," the hunter breathed in surprised admiration. "But those fuckers are _fast_. They seemed to figure that out, and they started using their speed against you."

Dante paused to take a deep breath. Retelling what he had seen seemed to discomfort him. Despite making the halfbreed uneasy, Nero felt a strange warmth at the thought that his being injured had worried Dante so much. The warmth grew inside him when Dante's hand curved around his hip and hugged his body to the hunter's side as if afraid to let him go. Nero wasn't even sure Dante knew he was doing it, but, either way, he reluctantly welcomed the caring gesture with a light blush on his cheeks. Strangely enough, Nero found himself wanting Dante to tease him about like he always did. However, the older devil was clearly too, for lack of a better word, upset at that moment to find any humor within himself.

"They were all rushing toward you every second to try and shock you. You were dodging it like a pro, but..."

"But...?" Nero repeated, urging Dante to continue. Why was he so hesitant to retell such events? They were already over; what harm would come from retelling them?

"_But_," Dante continued, "you tripped."

Nero almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea that he was lying there apparently injured because he stumbled over something.

"They were just moving so fast you didn't have time to notice you were too close to the curb."

_Curb?_ Nero thought. Had he been battling them in the middle of the street?

"You stumbled backward and fell on your ass. You got back up as soon as you hit the concrete, but that fraction of a second that you couldn't dodge out of the way gave one of them time to charge at you."

Dante shook his head, swallowing what must have been a lump in his throat. His eyes refused to meet Nero's, but the younger hunter was unsure if that was simply because the images in his mind had overtaken his vision, making his eyes distant, or for some other reason. Finally, he took another breath and continued.

"The bastard rammed you with that fuckin' horn thing on its face. Stabbed you right in the chest... You screamed so loud..."

Suddenly, Nero's memories returned with overwhelming clarity, and it was all thanks to being reminded what it had felt like to be electrocuted. Nero had been shocked before, but only for a fleeting moment. He had never endured it for such a long moment. He remembered the excruciating pain of the electricity coursing through his body. It made his nervous system go haywire, every nerve in his body torturing him with a stinging, burning pain. His brain had short-circuited, and he had been unable to think anything at all. His actions were purely mechanical, and his body did what it instinctually knew to do. It screamed. Nero could remember that blood-curdling, horrifying sound that he never before thought he was capable of producing. With one lung punctured from the Blitz's horn, a weak, airy sound added an unsettling ambience to the noise. He had sounded more animal than man, and only as he was remembering it at that moment did Nero realize the sound had come from him.

"I'm sorry, Nero," Dante breathed, ripping him from his thoughts. "I saw you were outmatched. It was inevitable that you got hurt. If I had jumped in, you wouldn't have gotten hurt at all, but I just kept telling myself you could handle it."

Nero wanted desperately to disagree with Dante that he had been outmatched, but he knew it was the truth even if he didn't want to admit it. Instead, he placed his demonic hand on Dante's knee, though the movement pained him. Dante's eyes finally met his again, surprised at the tender, intimate touch. It made things a tad awkward but seemed to comfort both of them.

"I'm just glad they didn't get me where it counts," Nero declared with a slight smile, tapping a finger over his heart. Dante nodded, sighing in relief.

"Me, too, kid," he said softly. His worry seemed to be gradually fading away. "They really battered you after they stunned you, though. You've got broken ribs, some nasty gashes, and you're covered in bruises. I'm honestly surprised they didn't do more damage."

Nero was surprised, too, but mostly by the fact that he was feeling very little pain at all. Mostly, he only felt a tiny stab of it when he breathed or moved his right arm. His thigh was a little sore, too, but he was feeling nothing excruciating. Whatever pain killer Dante had been giving him must have been one Hell of a drug.

"So you feel fine?" Dante asked again. "You don't need anything?"

"I'm holding on," Nero replied with a grin. Dante's hand fell over his own on the hunter's knee and squeezed slightly.

"You better," he said as if afraid Nero might slip away.

"What? You think I'd leave your sorry ass here all by yourself? You couldn't survive without me."

Dante smirked. "And why's that?"

"You kidding?" Nero asked rhetorically, grinning mischievously. "You'd eat nothing but pizza until you died of a heart attack if I wasn't here to force feed you something else every once in awhile. And you'd never clean. The trash would get so high you'd have t'wade through it!"

Dante grinned and chuckled. "That's probably an accurate assumption. I'd rot without you around, wouldn't I?" That was more of an accurate statement than he was brave enough to admit. The halfbreed's hand clasped tighter around Nero's, the hard plates on his demonic claws digging into his skin. Nero's fingers hesitantly wrapped around Dante's that were pressing into the soft, blue flesh of his palm. Both hunter's stared at their joined hands, their breaths elevated along with their heartbeats. Both yearned to say something to the other, but words failed them, and the moment soon became awkward. However, neither hunter moved to let go for fear of sending the wrong message. They simply stared and breathed until Dante's thumb caressing his palm made Nero's lungs stop working.

"Um," he hummed, pausing to clear his throat though it didn't need clearing, "some water would be nice."

"Oh..." Dante exclaimed, detaching his hand from Nero's before clearing his own throat excessively. "Okay, I'll, uh... I'll get you some."

Nero smiled in gratitude at the older hunter, but it seemed more like a grimace. He sighed disappointedly as he watched the man walk away, wishing with every step that he would turn in the opposite direction.


	18. Theme Twenty-One: Never Again

100 Theme Challenge

**Theme:** Never Again

**Universe:** DMC

**Character(s):** Nero, Dante

**Genre(s):** I never know...

**Warnings:** Language, Implied attraction of one male to another, Body modification

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The world beyond the windowpane slid by slowly like the frames on an old film reel. Nero examined his own face faintly reflected on the smooth surface. The grass outside, lightly sprinkled with snow, appeared spearmint green in the fleeting remains of evening light. Nightfall encroached on the horizon, transforming the vivid rose of the sky into a soft purple dotted with bright stars. The thunking of the train as it traveled the tracks had lulled him into calmness. Idly watching the fog that danced against the frigid glass when he breathed, Nero enjoyed the temporary blankness of his mind as he waited for the train to reach the station. There were definitely quicker ways to reach Capulet City, but he had always enjoyed the antiquated charm offered by the train.

Feeling eyes on him, Nero's shifted ahead to find a woman staring over the backrest of her seat farther down the row. She was a very pretty girl with a heart-shaped face, freckles, and flowing, red curls. She appeared to be about his age, maybe a couple of years younger. Her viridian eyes and face were lit up with a welcoming smile. Obviously, she was flirting. Nero returned her smile with one that flashed so quickly across his face that she would have missed it if she blinked. He wasn't interested. There was only one person on his mind: the one he was heading home to at that very moment.

_Dante,_ thought Nero with a sigh. Every thought of the man made his stomach knot up in excitement. Sneering, Nero was loath to admit that he was acting like a lost puppy being reunited with its owner. That was exactly what it felt like. He hadn't spoken a word to the man in over five months. When he left on his little soul searching journey, the young devil had decided that it would make staying away easier if he didn't call what he had come to know as home—Devil May Cry. As a result, his yearning for familiarity was excruciating. He missed the smells, the scenery, the nightly creaks of the building settling. He missed how he could tell exactly when Dante woke and retreated to bed by the playing and pausing of the music that blasted throughout the office all day, every day. Most of all, he missed Dante. He missed the cheesy jokes, the teasing, the mischievous grins, and the smirks that always seemed lascivious even if they were about something utterly unrelated to sex. Hell, he missed _everything_.

However, Nero was also fearful of what affect his absence might have on their relationship. How much had Dante changed in their time apart? Nero knew something inside himself had definitely changed whether he could identify it or not. Simply put, he felt like a changed person. Would their changes doom their relationship to awkwardness? Before he left, they had been so close. They were comrades in battle, best friends, and almost more. It was said time and time again that distance and time make the heart grow fonder, and, perhaps, that was true before the implied reunion. But once he and Dante were reunited, would they find that their time apart had turned them into strangers? That was what Nero feared the most: to be again alienated to Dante. It had taken a considerable amount of time beforehand to forge such bonds between them. If his absence had caused any kind of damage, Nero at least hoped that it was repairable.

_The last thing I need is to lose the only person I have..._

Nero was nearly startled by the sudden screeching of the brakes as the train began to drift to a stop. The moment that it halted at the station, his gut tightened into nervous knots. He exited the train quickly, ignoring the girl, who again attempted to capture his attention with her eyes that seemed to glitter when she smiled. Nero walked hastily in the opposite direction, uncaring whether he offended her or not.

_Sorry, but you ain't my style._ He snickered at how much his inner monologue sounded like Dante as if the older hunter was somehow mentally chastising him within his own head. Wouldn't that be a promising sign of reciprocation. Alas, he could only wish for such fanciful things.

A half an hour of stomping as quickly as he could, resisting the urge to sprint, later, Nero stood before Devil May Cry, whose façade was both relieving and more imposing than ever before. As Nero walked up the three small steps and onto the stoop, he had to quirk an eyebrow. When had Dante gotten a stoop?

_I suppose if hadn't been such an asshole and called him, I'd know the answer to that,_ thought Nero, pursing his lips. _Then again, he may not've even cared if he heard from me or not._ For how generous and friendly Dante had been toward him, his thoughts sounded like an overreaction. However, Dante was never the type to care very much about anything, and it wasn't as if they were inseparably close when he left. It was very possible that Dante had simply moved on, if he was even bothered in the first place by Nero's absence. When he told Dante he was leaving and said goodbye, never directly stating whether he would ever come back, the devil hunter seemed concerned, confused and maybe a tad hurt. Nero had no reason to assume he was only acting. Dante wasn't like that; if he hadn't cared, it would have been in black and white, even if he was polite about it. Nero was sure his departure had affected Dante, if only a little. He could only hope the emotions it caused still lingered somewhere inside.

Glancing around, Nero noticed that some of the brick on each side of the new doors appeared newer than the rest. It was an irregular pattern as if the front of the shop had suffered an explosion. He wondered what the Hell Dante had been doing while he was gone before his attention returned to the door with a sigh. His observations were simply a way of justifying his stalling. He had to force his hand to reach for the handle, his fingers to curl around it, and his arm to pull open the door.

As Nero stood in the open doorway, time stopped for a moment of brevity as he reacquainted himself with his surroundings. He was happy to find that nothing else had changed, save for a few more additions to Dante's collection of devil arms on the wall behind his desk. He would have to hear the stories about how the hunter came to acquire them. Dante hadn't changed either. In his same usual attire that Nero vividly recalled, the halfbreed was seated on the front of his desk, the ivory grip of a ceremonial dagger clutched in hand. He was sliding the shining, gold blade across a whetstone, sharpening the knife just to have something to do. Such a piece was never meant to be used as a weapon. As time resumed, Dante's head slowly lifted from his hands and his eyes widened the moment he realized at whom he was staring.

"Nero?" the hunter said in surprise as if he couldn't believe his eyes. The sound of his voice so softly speaking his name sent chills of excitement through Nero. He wanted to make a dramatic entrance, but the younger man could do nothing to stop the wide smile that lit up his face. He held his hands out wide as if to call attention to his glorious form.

"Miss me, asshole?" he said affectionately. Dante smirked, oddly mischievously, before placing the objects in hand on his desk. He rushed at Nero, and the part-devil let the heavy bag slide from his demonic arm in preparation for a long-awaited hug. However, Dante stopped several feet short of him, lifted a leg, and, before Nero could realize what was happening, the devil's boot slammed into his chest, sending him careening back onto his ass.

"What the fuck?" Nero muttered, rubbing his lower back and cringing from the pain of the impact. He glared up at the older man, waiting for an explanation.

"That's for not callin' me, ya' little fuck," Dante growled. Then, he offered Nero his hand, and, the moment their palms connected, the young devil was jerked straight up into Dante's arms. The devil hunter crushed him in a bear hug that would have damaged a mere human, but it only made Nero smile, eyes sliding closed in pure bliss. Wrapping his own arms around the hunter's neck, he nuzzled the man's shoulder, both hoping he didn't notice and wishing he would at the same time.

At least, a single minute passed before Dante released him, but Nero wished it had been much longer. He had been enjoying Dante's warm hand slowly gliding up and down the small of his back, growing teasingly closer and closer to his ass each time. When they separated, Dante held him at arm's length, giving him a once-over.

"Where've ya' been, kid?" he asked, eyes cast downward. He gave Nero a light shove before his hands fell back to his sides.

"A lot of places," Nero replied as the both stepped into the warmth of the building, shutting the door behind them. Dante was already behind the bar retrieving them both a beer by the time Nero finished turning the lock. The hunter reclaimed his perch on the desk before tossing Nero a bottle as he walked over to join him.

"You're in luck," Dante chirped. "Pizza just got here a few minutes ago. It's still warm."

Nero barked a laugh. "I never thought I'd miss hearing _those_ words."

Dante sniffed in humor, rolling his eyes as he popped the cap off his beer with his thumb. He took a big gulp as Nero plopped down beside him, doing the same to his own drink with a glowing claw.

"You're gonna have t'tell me what the Hell you were doing for _five_ fuckin' months," the devil hunter declared, staring sideways at Nero. Said younger man was almost too fixated on the halfbreed's tongue licking the flavor from his lips to reply.

"None of it's really that interesting," he mumbled.

"Oh, come on! Spare me," cried Dante dramatically, clapping a hand over his heart. "You don't go on a trip like that and come back without a single good story."

Nero stared off for a moment, wondering what he should and shouldn't share with Dante. He had done a lot of things he could have never imagined himself doing before. Some of it he was not proud to have done, though he only hurt himself in the process.

"I got a tattoo," he finally said after a pregnant pause. Dante's brows shot up.

"Really?"

"And two piercings," added Nero. The devil hunter frowned and nodded appreciatively, obviously amazed that the good little Fortuna boy would ever modify his body in any such way.

"Where?" he finally asked with a quirked brow. Nero responded by sticking out his tongue, revealing a silver ball connected to a rod that disappeared into the pale pink muscle.

"Wow," said Dante with a chuckle. "And the other one?"

Nero turned his head away, already feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Um, _well_..."

Dante instantly realized what he was implying, the pervert. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed, clapping a hand on his thigh and breaking into a short fit of laughter. "I can't believe that."

"Well, believe it, old man, 'cause it's true," Nero replied before taking a swig of his beer as if it would somehow hide the pink on his cheeks.

"Well, show me the tattoo then."

Nero waved him off before pulling the bottle from his lips. "Later," he replied. "I'm eating right now."

As Nero twisted around to grab a slice of pizza from the box behind him, he heard Dante snort a mutter, "Punk." Smiling fondly, his hand landed on the lid of the box, and he was about to open it before he caught something unfamiliar from the corner of his eye. When he saw what it was, the young part-devil had to pause for a moment in wonder. It was a photo, taken by Lady, of him and Dante standing atop a fallen devil, the halfbreed's arm thrown across Nero's shoulders. Dante was smirking as he always did, while Nero was smiling nervously. Dante had never had the physical photo—only the copy Lady texted to him on his rarely used cellphone. He had went to the effort to have it developed and framed, placed beside the photo of his dear mother on the corner of his desk. That corner was for people he lost.

_He thought he lost me..._

Nero stared at the photo for a few moments longer, feeling a place inside him warm. His mouth was still opened in surprise, but it slowly closed, and he grinned happily. For the first time since he left before, Nero was absolutely certain that Devil May Cry was the one place in the world where he truly belonged.

_I'm never leaving again..._


End file.
